THE 

FRIENDLY 
"I    TOWN 


EDW.V. 

LUCAS 


ft 


<t?l 


c.    -  i 


'.  •' 


THE    FRIENDLY    TOWN 


DELIGHTFUL  ANTHOLOGIES 

THE  OPEN  ROAD 

Compiled  by  E.  V.  LUCAS.  A  little  book  for  way- 
farers containing  some  125  poems  from  over  60  authors. 

THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 

Compiled  by  E.  V.  LUCAS.  A  little  book  for  the 
urbane  containing  over  200  selections  in  verse  and 
prose  from  100  authors. 

THE  POETIC   OLD-WORLD 

Compiled  by  MissL.  H.  HUMPHREY.  Covers  Europe, 
including  Spain,  Belgium,  and  the  British  Isles,  in 
some  200  poems  from  about  go  poets.  Some  30,  not 
originally  written  in  English,  are  given  in  both  the 
original  and  the  best  available  translation. 

These  three  books  are  uniform,  with  full  gilt  flexible 
covers  and  pictured  cover  linings.  i6mo.  Each,  cloih, 
$1.50  net;  leather,  $2.50  net. 

POEMS  FOR  TRAVELERS 

Compiled  by  MARY  R.  J.  DuBois.  i6mo.  Cloth. 
$1.50  net;  leather,  $2.50  net.  Covers  France,  Germany, 
Austria,  Switzerland,  Italy,  and  Greece  in  some  three 
hundred  poems  from  about  one  hundred  and  thirty 
poets. 

A  BOOK  OF  VERSES  FOR  CHII  DREN 

Compiled  by  E.  V.  LUCAS.  Over  200  poems  repre- 
senting some  So  authors.  With  decorations  by  F.  D. 
BEDFORD.  Revised  edition.  $2.00.  Library  edition, 
$1.00  net. 

HENRY    HOLT    AND    COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS  NEW    YORK 


THE  FRIENDLY  TOWN 


A  Little  Book  for  the  Urbane 


COMPILED   BY 

E.    V.    LUCAS 


•'  This  is  my  home  of  love;  if  I  have  ranged, 
Like  him  that  travels  I  return  again." 

Shakespeare 


NEW   YORK 

HENRY     HOLT     AND     COMPANY 
1909 


The  End  Papers  are  from  designs  by  William  Hyde 


THE  ARGUMENT 

When  still  in  the  season 
Oj  sunshine  and  leisure, 
While  blithe  yet  we  wander 

O'er  meadow  and  Down, 
O  say  is  it  treason 
To  think  of  the  treasure 
Heaped  up  for  us  yonder 

In  grey  London  town? 

We  hunt  the  sweet  berry 
With  purple-stained  ardour; 
Each  bramble  one  hooks  in 

Is  bent  'neath  its  load: 
It's  free  and  it's  merry 
In  nature's  rich  larder — 
But  O  to  hunt  books  in 

The  Charing  Cross  Road! 

As  daylight  expires  in 
This  best  of  Septembers, 
A  coolness  comes  blowing — 

A  chill  wintry  hint! 
But— think! — it  blows  fires  in, 
And  dream-kindling  embers, 
And  candle-light  glowing 

On  time-mellowed  print! 

The  glory  of  summer 
One's  being  rejoices; 
Yet  liail  to  this  flavour 

Of  summer's  decay, 
It's  bringing  the  glamour, 
The  lights  and  the  voices, 
The  dear  homely  savour 

Of  London  this  way! 

E.  V.  L. 


2040251 


Come  then !  and  while  the  slow  icicle  hangs 
At  the  stiffe  thatch,  and  Winter's  frosty  pangs 
Benumme  the  year,  blithe — as  of  old — let  us 
Midst  noise  and  war,  of  peace  and  mirth  discusse. 
This  portion  thou  wert  born  for:  why  should  we 
Vex  at  the  time's  ridiculous  miserie  ? 
An  age  that  thus  hath  fooled  itself,  and  will — 
Spite  of  thy  teeth  and  mine — persist  so  still. 
Let's  sit  then  at  this  fire ;  and,  while  we  steal 
A  revell  in  the  town,  let  others  seal, 
Purchase  or  cheat,  and  who  can,  let  them  pay, 
Till  those  black  deeds  bring  on  the  darksome  day. 
Innocent  spenders  we!  a  better  use 
Shall  wear  out  our  short  lease,  and  leave  th'  obtuse 
Rout  to  their  husks.      They  and  their  bags  at  best 
Have  cares  in  earnest.      We  care  for  a  jest. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


WINTER  AND  CHRISTMAS 


OLD  OCTOBER  .... 
WINTER  NIGHTS 
THE  FRELUDINGS     . 

WINTER 

To  A  SNOWFLAKE  . 
THE  SNO\V-WALKERS 
THE  WINTER  GLASS 
AT  THE  SIGN  OF  THE  JOLLY 

JACK 

To  HIS  SAVIOUR 

OLD  CHRISTMAS 

THE  MAHOGANY  TREE     . 

CEREMONIES  FOR  CHRISTMASSE 

DR.  OPIMIAN  ON  CHRISTMAS  . 

CHRISTMAS  MERRYMAKING 

FRIENDS  AND  ' 


To  MY  WORTHY  FRIEND. 
HERACLITUS  . 


PAGE 

T.  Constable 

2 

Thomas  Campion  . 

3 

J.  R.  Lowell. 

4 

W.  Cowper  . 

5 

Francis  Thompson 

6 

John  Burroughs     . 

7 

Charles  Cotton 

8 

Geoffrey  Smith 

ii 

R.  Herrick    . 

13 

George  Wither 

13 

IV.  M.  Thackeray  . 

17 

J?.  Herrick    . 

19 

T.  L.  Peacock 

20 

Sir  Walter  Scott    . 

21 

^HE  FIRE 

Henry  Vaughan    . 

25 

William  Cory 

2<) 

vii 


To  MR.  LAWRENCE. 
To  CYRIACK  SKINNER     . 
MR.  WILLIAM  HERVEY    . 

PAGE 

.    John  Milton  .         .       26 
•             „             .         .       27 
A.  Cowley     .         .       28 
.     E.  V.  L.       .         .       30 

MlMNERMUS   IN   CHURCH. 

William  Cory        .       31 

BY  THE  FIRESIDE     . 

R.  Browning         .       32 

MR.  HUNTER  . 

R.  L.  Stevenson     .       42 

To  O.  W.  HOLMES  . 

.    /.  Jf.  Lowell          .       45 

CLAY        .... 

.     E.  V.  L.       .         .       48 

EDMUND  QUINCY     . 

.    /.  R.  Lffwell.         .       49 

INTER  SODALES 

.      IV.  E.  Henley       .       49 

To  C.  F.  BRADFORD 

.    /.  R.  Lowell.         .       50 

MOUNSEY  .... 

.      \V.   Hazlitt  .         .       52 

CONVERSATION  . 

It7.  Cowper   .         .       54 

THE  INDIAN  WEED  . 

.     Ralph  Erskine       .       57 

HARRY  CAREY'S  REPLY    . 

.      Henry  Carey          .       59 

THE  FIRE 

.    /.  G.  Whittier      .       60 

SANCTUARY 

.      W.  Cowper  .         .       62 

TRAVELS  BY  THE  FIRESIDE 

.     H.  W.  Longfellow  .       63 

AN  EMBER  PICTURE 

.    /.  R.  Lowell.         .       65 

FANCY       .... 

.    John  Keats    .         .       67 

THE  CHILDREN'S  HOUR  . 

.     H.  W.  Longfellow        70 

MORE  FRIENDS 

PETS.        .        .        ... 

Mar  aret  Benson 

UPON  HIS  SPANIELL  TRACIE 

.     Jf.  Herrick    .         .       75 

MY  TERRIER     . 

.     Alfred  Cochrane     .       75 

THE  DOG  .... 

R.  L.  Stevenson     .       78 

MY  LAST  TERRIER  . 

.    John  Halsham       .       79 

MRS. 


DINGLEY'S  LAP-DOG 

/.  Swift 

81 

ISLET  THE  DACHS    . 

George  Meredith     . 

81 

GEIST'S  GRAVE. 

Matthew  Arnold   . 

82 

To  MY  CAT       .... 

Graham  R.  Tomson 

85 

To  A  CAT         .... 

A.  C.  Swinburne  . 

86 

THE  TABLE  AND 

THE  BINN 

BEN  INVITES  A  FRIEND   . 

Ben  Jonson    . 

9i 

AD   MlNISTRAM 

W.  M.  Thackeray  . 

92 

ROAST  PIG        .... 

Charles  Lamb 

93 

A  SALAD  ..... 

Sydney  Smith 

95 

FISH         

»>                     • 

7J 

96 

THE  BALLAD  OF  BOUILLABAISSE 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 

97 

OLD  VEUVE      .... 

George  Meredith    . 

IOO 

To  R.  A.  M.  S. 

W.  E.  Henley 

1  02 

CLARET     

John  Keats    . 

103 

AN  AGED  AND  A  GREAT  WINK 

George  Meredith     . 

104 

-ANOTHER  INVITATION 

Anon     . 

107 

SIR  PETER        .... 

T.  L.  Peacock 

108 

THE  POPE        .... 

S.  Lover        .         . 

109 

"MIDNIGHT  DARLINGS" 

CANDLE-LIGHT 

Charles  Lamb 

H3 

BALLADE  OF  THE  BOOKWORM  . 

Andrew  Lang 

"5 

MY  BOOKS        .... 

Austin  Dob  son 

116 

To  LIVE  MERRILY    . 

A'.  Herrick   . 

117 

ODE  ON  THE  POETS. 

J.  Keats 

119 

THE  POET         ....     Sir  Philip  Sidney  .     121 
READING  .  Charles  Lamb        .     122 


PAGE 

OLD  BOOKS  ARE  BEST 

Beverly  Cheiv 

123 

A  WISH    

T.  E.  Brown 

123 

CHAUCER  

H.  W.  Longfellow  . 

124 

ON  FIRST  LOOKING  INTO  CHAP- 

MAN'S HOMER 

John  Keats    . 

124 

THE  ODYSSEY   .... 

Andrew  Lang 

125 

SOPHOCLES        .... 

Greek  Anthology    . 

126 

ARISTOPHANES  .... 

» 

126 

126 

MELEAGER        .... 

>» 

127 

W  S.  Landor 

127 

T  E.  Brown 

128 

To  SIR  HENRY  GOODYERE 

Ben  Jonson    . 

128 

DUMAS      

W.  M.  Thackeray  . 

129 

HAZLITT'S  WAY 

W.  Hazlitt   . 

130 

"  FOR  HUMAN  DELIGHT  " 

E.  FitzGerald 

135 

To  THE  GENTLE  READER 

Andrew  Lang 

136 

MUSIC  AND  PAINTING 

WlND-MUSIQUE 

Samuel  Pepys 

141 

WITH  A  GUITAR  TO  JANE 

P.  B.  Shelley 

141 

EVEN  TAVERN-MUSICKE  . 

Sir  T.  Browne 

145 

DURING  Music 

J.  B.  B.  Nichols   . 

MS 

SONG        

William  Strode 

147 

AT  A  SOLEMN  Music 

John  Milton  . 

147 

MlSS  LlNLEY     .... 

C.  R.  Leslie  . 

149 

BEETHOVEN  AND  MOZART 

E.  FitzGerald 

150 

BACH'S  ORGAN  WORKS     . 

T.  E.  Brown 

151 

THE  LITTLE  FLOWER-POT 

Samuel  Pepys 

151 

JAMES  ELI  A,  CONNOISSEUR      . 

Charles  Lamb         , 

152 

PACK 

A  PORTRAIT     .... 

Thomas  Dekker     .     1  54 

F   FitzGerald        .      154 

SIR  JOSHUA       .... 

W.  Hazlitt    .         .155 

RUBENS     

W.  M.  Thackeray  .      1  57 

THOMSON  AND  THE  PAINTERS  . 

W.  H.  Pyne         .     159 

THE  PLAY 

SALATHIEL  PAVY 

Ben  Jonson    .         .     165 

AN  EXCELLENT  ACTOR     . 

Sir  T.  Overbury    .      1  66 

NELL  GWYNN   .... 

Samuel  Pepys         .      167 

MRS.    MOUNTFORT     . 

Colley  Gibber         .     168 

SIR  ROGER  AT  THE  PLAY 

J.  Addison     .         .     171 

DAVY        

Charles  Dibdin      .     174 

MRS.  JORDAN   .... 

Leigh  Hunt  .         .174 

»>             .... 

Charles  Lamb        .     176 

MUNDEN    ..... 

•     177 

CHARLES  KEMBLE    . 

Fanny  Kemble       .     178 

MRS.  SIDDONS  .... 

John  Wilson  .         .179 

EDMUND  KEAN 

W.  Hazlitt   .         .180 

»                    ... 

Fanny  Kemble       .     181 

ELLEN  TERRY  .... 

Anna  Gannon        .      182 

THE  DANCERS  .... 

W.M.Thackeray.     183 

DUCROW   

John  Wilson.         .     184 

YOUTH  IN  THE  CITY 

SALLY  IN  OUR  ALLEY 

Henry  Carey          .     189 

A  BALLAD  UPON  A  WEDDING. 

Sir  John  Suckling  .     191 

THE  CHRONICLE 

A.  Cowky    .         .     196 

(1  H.  Williams    .     199 

THE  CANE-BOTTOMED  CHAIR  .     W.  M.  Thackeray.     200 


JENNY  KISS'D  ME 
HESTER    

Leigh  Hunt  . 
Charles  Lamb 

.     203 
.     203 

YOUTH  AND  ART 

R.  Browning 

.     205 

BRIDGET  AND  THE  FOLIO 

Charles  Lamb 

.     208 

A  CREDO  

W.  M.  Thackeray 

.     209 

"ToM  AND  JERRY" 

)> 

.       211 

EPIGRAM  

W.  S.  Landor 

.       212 

To  MINERVA    . 

Thomas  Hood 

.       212 

THE  TAVERN 

THE  DEAD  HOST'S  WELCOME  . 

John  Fletcher 

•       215 

A  TAVERN  SCENE    . 

Shakespeare  . 

.     216 

VERSES  AT  THE  DEVIL  TAVERN 

Ben  Jonson   . 

.      219 

To  BEN  JONSON 

R.  Herrick    . 

.      219 

THE  MERMAID  TAVERN  . 

/.  Keats 

.       220 

MR.  GALLASPY 

T.  Amory 

.       221 

GLORIOUS  JOHN 

Sir  Waller  Scott 

.       222 

DR.  JOHNSON'S  TAVERN  WISDOM 

James  Boswell 

.       22S 

LAVENGRO  AT  THE  HOLY  LANDS 

George  Borrow 

.       226 

THE  CONNIVING-HOUSE  . 

T.  Amory 

.      228 

THE  PAST 

APRIL  30,  1667 

Samuel  Pepys 

•       23I 

ON  A  FLY-LEAF 

Walter  Learned 

•       231 

THE  EIGHT-DAY  CLOCK  . 

Alfred  Cochrane 

•      233 

To  SPRING  GARDENS 

J.  Addison     . 

•       235 

Austin  Dobson 

•       237 

THE  MUFFIN-MAN  . 

A.J.     .        . 

•       239 

WHEN  WE  WERE  POOR    . 

Charles  Lamb 

.       241 

LONDON 

PAGE 

THI:  LAST  LEAF                         .  O.  II'.  Holmes      .  242 

WALPOLE'S  VIEW      .         .         .  Horace  IValpole     .  247 

BLOOMSBURY      ....  Wilfred  Whitten  .  249 

HAZLITT  s  VIEW        .         .         .  IV.  Hazlitt   .         .  250 

NOVEMBER  BLUE      .        .        .  Mrs.  Meynell        .  253 

AN  ISLAND  OF  QUIET      .        .  N.  Hawthorne       .  253 

ST.  JAMES'S  STREET          .         .  F.  Locker  Lampson  254 

THE  THAMES    ....  Stephen  Gwynn     .  257 

WESTMINSTER  BRIDGE      .         .  W.  Words-worth    .  258 

FERDINAND  DISCOVERS  LONDON  B.Disraeli  .        .  258 

THE  CITY  AT  NIGHT        .         .  Thomas  Carlyle     .  261 

A  SONG  OF  FLEET  STREET      .  Alice  Werner        .  263 


TWO  LONDONERS 

JOHNSON  AND  HIS  BOSWELL     .    James  Boswell       .  267 

GOOD  TOWNSMEN 

JOLLY  JACK       .        .        .         .     W.  M.  Thackeray .  277 
THE  TRAVELLING  TAILOR        .      Thornton  and  Col- 

man  .         .         .279 

BEAU  TIBBS       ....     Oliver  Goldsmith  .  281 

CHARLES  LAMB         .         .         .     W.  Hazlitt    .        .  283 

MRS.  BATTLE    ....     Charles  Lamb        .  285 

FITZPATRICK  SMART,  ESQ.       .    /.  Hill  Burton      .  288 

JEM  WHITS      ....     Charles  Lamb        .  294 

W /.  R.  Lowell.        .  297 

WHITTLE  AND  SARRATT  .        .     W.  Hazlitt  .       .  300 

J.  F.         .        .        .        '.        .    /  R.  Lowell.        .  301 


PAGE 

W.  Hazlitt   .         .     303 

XAVIER  MARMIER    . 

O.  Uzanne    .         .     306 

SIR  ROGER'S  DEATH 

J.  Addison    .         .     309 

THE  CURE'S  PROGRESS     . 

Austin  Dobson      .     313 

THE  COURTLY  POETS 

A  MOST  NOBLE  LADY 

John  Heywood  (?)  .     317 

SONG         

Anon.   .         .         -319 

"THERE  is  NONE"  . 

Robert,     Earl     of 

Essex         .         .     320 

To  CELIA         .... 

Ben  Jonson    .         -321 

ON  A  GIRDLE  .... 

Edmund  Waller    .     321 

To  ALTHEA      .... 

Richard  Lovelace  .     322 

AN  EXCELLENT  NEW  BALLAD. 

fames,   Marquis  of 

Montrose   .         .     323 

To  LUCASTA     .... 

Richard  Lovelace  .     325 

GRATIANA  DANCING 

•     325 

To  HIS  COY  MISTRESS 

Andrew  Marvel!  .     326 

ON  A  HALFPENNY   .        . 

Henry  Fielding     .     328 

AN  ELEGY        .... 

William  Browne  .     329 

AN  EPITAPH     .... 

Ben  Jonson   .         .     329 

LOVE  AND  AGE 

T.  L,  Peacock         .     330 

E.  G.  DE  R  

THE  POST 

To  HIS  SON  VINCENT  CORBET. 

R.  Corbet      .         .     335 

To  LADY   MARGARET  CAVEN- 

DISH HOLLES-HARLEY  . 

Mat.  Prior   .        .     336 

To  A  CHILD  OF  QUALITY        . 

•     336 

STEELE'S  WAY  .... 

Sir  R.  Steeh         .     338 

xiv 

PAGE 

STELLA'S  BIRTHDAY.        .        .  J.  Swift        .  .  341 

To  MR.  THOMAS  SOUTHERNE  .  A.  Pope        .  .  341 

WALPOLE'S  WAY       .        .        .  Horace  Walpole  .  342 

VINNY  BOURNE         .        .        .     W.  Cowper  .  .  345 

THE  CANDIDATE       ...             ,,  346 

KEATS'S  WAY    .        .        .        .  /.  Keats        .  .  348 

A  POET'S  SON  ....  Charles  Lamb  .  350 

RURAL  DEATH-IN-LIFE                          ,,  .  353 

SYDNEY  SMITH'S  WAY      .         .  Sydney  Smith  .  355 

JEREMY  TAYLOR'S  WAY    .         .  Jeremy  Taylor  .  356 

THE  WISE  MEN 

Vixi L.  S.     .         .  .358 

THE  CANON'S  MAXIMS      .         .  Sydney  Smith  .  359 

HORACE,  BOOK  n.  ODE  x.       .     IV.  Cowper  .  .  360 

CONTENTMENT  .        .        .  O.  W.  Holmes  .  362 

THE  WORLD     .        .        .        .  H.  Walpole  .  .  364 

THE  MAN  OF  LIFE  UPRIGHT  .  Thomas  Campion  .  366 

OF  A  CONTENTED  MIND  .        .     Thomas  Lord  Vanx  367 

MY  MlND  TO  ME  A  KINGDOM  is  Sir  Edward  Dyer  .  368 

No  ARMOUR  AGAINST  FATE     .  J.  Shirley     .  .  370 

EPIGRAM W.  S.  Landor  .  371 

LIFE A.  L.  Barbanld  .  371 

THE  END W.  E.  HenLy  .  37:5 

AWAKENING 

THE  MEADOWS  IN  SPRING       .  E.  FitzGerald  .  375 


OLD  OCTOBER 

Hail,  old  October,  bright  and  chill, 
First  freedman  from  the  summer  sun  ! 
Spice  high  the  bowl,  and  drink  your  fill ! 
Thank  heaven,  at  last  the  summer's  done ! 

Come,  friend,  my  fire  is  burning  bright, 
A  fire's  no  longer  out  of  place, 
How  clear  it  glows !  (there's  frost  to-night,) 
It  looks  white  winter  in  the  face. 

You've  been  to  "  Richard."    Ah!  you've  seen 
A  noble  play  :  I'm  glad  you  went ; 
But  what  on  earth  does  Shakespeare  mean 
By  "winter  of  our  discontent "  ? 

Be  mine  the  Tree  that  feeds  the  fire ! 
Be  mine  the  sun  knows  when  to  set ! 
Be  mine  the  months  when  friends  desire 
To  turn  in  here  from  cold  and  wet ! 

The  sentry  sun,  that  glared  so  long 
O'erhead,  deserts  his  summer  post ; 
Ay,  you  may  brew  it  hot  and  strong : 
"The  joys  of  winter  " — come,  a  toast ! 

Shine  on  the  kangaroo,  thou  sun ! 
Make  far  New  Zealand  faint  with  fear  ! 
Don't  hurry  back  to  spoil  our  fun, 
Thank  goodness,  old  Octpber's  here ! 

Thomas  Constable. 


Winter  Nights         •&         ^>         *£>         o         o 

"\  T  OW  winter  nights  enlarge 

^  ^      The  number  of  their  hours  ; 

And  clouds  their  storms  discharge 

Upon  the  airy  towers. 

Let  now  the  chimneys  blaze 

And  cups  o'erflow  with  wine, 

Let  well-tuned  words  amaze 

With  harmony  divine  ! 

Now  yellow  waxen  lights 

Shall  wait  on  honey  love, 

While  youthful  revels,  masques,  and  Courtly  sights 

Sleep's  leaden  spells  remove. 

This  time  doth  well  dispense 

With  lovers'  long  discourse  ; 
Much  speech  hath  some  defence, 

Though  beauty  no  remorse. 
All  do  not  all  things  well  : 

Some  measures  comely  tread, 
Some  knotted  riddles  tell, 

Some  poems  smoothly  read. 

3 


The  summer  hath  his  joys, 

And  winter  his  delights  ; 
Though  love  and  all  his  pleasures  are  but  toys, 

They  shorten  tedious  nights. 

Thomas  Campion. 


The  Preludings        o        o        o        o        •& 

THE  preludings  of  Winter  are  as  beautiful  as  those 
of  the  Spring.  In  a  grey  December  day,  when, 
as  the  farmers  say,  it  is  too  cold  to  snow,  his  numbed 
fingers  will  let  fall  doubtfully  a  few  star-shaped  flakes, 
the  snowdrops  or  the  anemones  that  harbinger  his 
more  assured  reign.  Now,  and  now  only,  may  be  seen, 
heaped  on  the  horizon's  eastern  edge,  those  "blue 
clouds"  from  forth  which  Shakespeare  says  that  Mars 
"doth  pluck  the  masoned  turrets."  Sometimes  also, 
when  the  sun  is  low,  you  will  see  a  single  cloud  trailing 
a  flurry  of  snow  along  the  southern  hills  in  a  wavering 
fringe  of  purple.  And  when  at  last  the  real  snow- 
storm comes,  it  leaves  the  earth  with  a  virginal  look 
on  it  that  no  other  of  the  seasons  can  rival,  compared 
with  which,  indeed,  they  seem  soiled  and  vulgar. 

And  what  is  there  in  nature  so  beautiful  as  the  next 
morning  after  such  confusion  of  the  elements  ?  Night 
has  no  silence  like  this  of  a  busy  day.  All  the  batteries 
of  noise  are  spiked.  We  see  the  movement  of  life 
as  a  deaf  man  sees  it,  a  mere  wraith  of  the  clamorous 
4 


existence  that  inflicts  itself  on  our  ears  when  the 
ground  is  bare.  The  earth  is  clothed  in  innocence 
as  a  garment.  Every  wound  of  the  landscape  is 
healed  ;  whatever  was  stiff  has  been  sweetly  rounded 
as  the  breast  of  Aphrodite  ;  what  was  unsightly  has 
been  covered  gently  with  a  soft  splendour,  as  if, 
Cowley  would  have  said,  Nature  had  cleverly  let  fall 
her  handkerchief  to  hide  it.  If  the  Virgin  (Notre 
Dame  de  la  Neige)  were  to  come  back,  here  is  an 
earth  that  would  not  bruise  her  foot,  nor  stain  it. 

It  is 

"  The  fanned  snow 

That's  bolted  by  the  northern  blasts  twice  o'er ; — 
Soffiata  e  stretta  dai  venti  Schiavi, 
\Vmnowed  and  packed  by  the  Sclavonian  winds," — 

packed  so  hard  sometimes  on  hill-slopes  that  it  will 
bear  your  weight.  What  grace  is  in  all  the  curves, 
as  if  every  one  of  them  had  been  swept  by  that 
inspired  thumb  of  Phidias's  journeyman. 

/.  R.  Lowell. 


Winter         *£>         •*>         •£>         o         o         <? 

WINTER,  ruler  of  th'  inverted  year, 

Thy  scattered  hair  with  sleet-like  ashes  filled, 
Thy  breath  congealed  upon  thy  lips,  thy  cheeks 
Fringed  with  a  beard  made  white  with  other  snows 
Than  those  of  age,  thy  forehead  wrapped  in  clouds, 

5 


A  leafless  branch  thy  sceptre,  and  thy  throne 
A  sliding  car,  indebted  to  no  wheels, 
But  urged  by  storms  along  its  slipp'ry  way, 
I  love  thee,  all  unlovely  as  thou  seem'st 
And  dreaded  as  thou  art !     Thou  hold'st  the  sun 
A  pris'ner  in  the  yet  undawning  east, 
Shortening  his  journey  between  morn  and  noon, 
And  hurrying  him,  impatient  of  his  stay, 
Dpwn  to  the  rosy  west ;  but  kindly  still 
Compensating  his  loss  with  added  hours 
Of  social  converse  and  instructive  ease, 
And  gath'ring,  at  short  notice,  in  one  group 
The  family  dispersed,  and  fixing  thought, 
Not  less  dispersed  by  daylight  and  its  cares. 
I  crown  thee  king  of  intimate  delights, 
Fireside  enjoyments,  homeborn  happiness, 
And  all  the  comforts  that  the  lowly  roof 
Of  undisturbed  Retirement,  and  the  hours 
Of  long  uninterrupted  ev'ning,  know. 

William  Cowper. 


To  a  Snowflake       o         o»         <?>         o        o 

"\  I  7" HAT  heart  could  have  thought  of  you  ?— 

^  *       Past  our  devisal 
(O  filigree  petal !) 
Fashioned  so  purely, 
Fragilely,  surely, 

6 


From  what  Paradisal 

Imagineless  metal, 

Too  costly  for  cost  ? 

Who  hammered  you,  wrought  you, 

From  argentine  vapour? — 

"  God  was  my  shaper. 

Passing  surmisal, 

He  hammered,  He  wrought  me, 

From  curled  silver  vapour, 

To  lust  of  His  mind  : — 

Thou  couldst  not  have  thought  me  i 

So  purely,  so  palely, 

Tinily,  surely, 

Mightily,  frailly, 

Insculped  and  embossed, 

With  His  hammer  of  wind, 

And  His  graver  of  frost." 

Francis  Thompson. 


The  Snow- Walkers  o        o         *o-        o 

T  T  E  who  marvels  at  the  beauty  of  the  world  in 
•*•  •*•  summer  will  find  equal  cause  for  wonder  and 
admiration  in  winter.  It  is  true  the  pomp  and  the 
pageantry  are  swept  away,  but  the  essential  elements 
remain, — the  day  and  the  night,  the  mountain  and 
the  valley,  the  elemental  play  and  succession  and  the 
perpetual  presence  of  the  infinite  sky.  In  winter  the 

7 


stars  seem  to  have  rekindled  their  fires,  the  moon 
achieves  a  fuller  triumph,  and  the  heavens  wear  a 
look  of  more  exalted  simplicity.  Summer  is  more 
wooing  and  seductive,  more  versatile  and  human, 
appeals  to  the  affections  and  the  sentiments,  and 
fosters  inquiry  and  the  art  impulse.  Winter  is  of  a 
more  heroic  cast,  and  addresses  the  intellect.  The 
severe  studies  and  disciplines  come  easier  in  the 
winter.  One  imposes  larger  tasks  upon  himself,  and 
is  less  tolerant  of  his  own  weaknesses. 

The  tendinous  part  of  the  mind,  so  to  speak,  is 
more  developed  in  winter :  the  fleshy,  in  summer. 
I  should  say  winter  had  given  the  bone  and  sinew 
to  Literature,  summer  the  tissues  and  the  blood. 

The  simplicity  of  winter  has  a  deep  moral. 

The  return  of  Nature,  after  such  a  career  of  splen- 
dour and  prodigality,  to  habits  so  simple  and  austere, 
is  not  lost  either  upon  the  head  or  the  heart.  It  is 
the  philosopher  coming  back  from  the  banquet  and 
the  wine  to  a  cup  of  water  and  a  crust  of  bread. 

John  Burroughs, 


The  Winter  Glass         •£>        o        o        o 

'T'HEN  let  the  chill  Sirocco  blow, 

And  gird  us  round  with  hills  of  snow  ; 
Or  else  go  whistle  to  the  shore, 
And  make  the  hollow  mountains  roar, 
8 


Whilst  we  together  jovial  sit 
Careless,  and  crown'd  with  mirth  and  wit ; 
Where  though  bleak  winds  confine  us  home. 
Our  fancies  round  the  world  shall  roam. 

We'll  think  of  all  the  friends  we  know, 
And  drink  to  all  worth  drinking  to  : 
When  having  drank  all  thine  and  mine, 
We  rather  shall  want  health  than  wine. 

But  where  friends  fail  us,  we'll  supply 
Our  friendships  with  our  charity. 
Men  that  remote  in  sorrows  live, 
Shall  by  our  lusty  brimmers  thrive. 

We'll  drink  the  wanting  into  wealth, 
And  those  that  languish  into  health, 
The  afflicted  into  joy,  th'  opprest 
Into  security  and  rest. 

The  worthy  in  disgrace  shall  find 
Favour  return  again  more  kind, 
And  in  restraint  who  stifled  lie, 
Shall  taste  the  air  of  liberty. 

The  brave  shall  triumph  in  success, 
The  lovers  shall  have  mistresses, 
Poor  unregarded  virtue  praise, 
And  the  neglected  poet  bays. 
9 


Thus  shall  our  healths  do  others  good, 
Whilst  we  ourselves  do  all  we  would  ; 
For  freed  from  envy  and  from  care, 
What  would  we  be  but  what  we  are  ? 

'Tis  the  plump  grape's  immortal  juice 
That  does  this  happiness  produce, 
And  will  preserve  us  free  together, 
Maugre  mischance,  or  wind  and  weather. 

Then  let  old  Winter  take  his  course, 
And  roar  abroad  till  he  be  hoarse, 
And  his  lungs  crack  with  ruthless  ire, 
It  shall  but  serve  to  blow  our  fire. 

Let  him  our  little  castle  ply 
With  all  his  loud  artillery, 
Whilst  sack  and  claret  man  the  fort, 
His  fury  shall  become  our  sport. 

Or,  let  him  Scotland  take,  and  there 
Confine  the  plotting  Presbyter  ; 
His  zeal  may  freeze,  whilst  we,  kept  warm 
With  love  and  wine,  can  know  no  harm. 

Charles  Cotton. 


10 


At  the  Sign  of  the  Jolly  Jack         o        -<?> 

"W'OU  merry  folk,  be  of  good  cheer, 
•*•       For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

From  open  door  you'll  take  no  harm 

By  winter  if  your  hearts  are  warm  ; 

So  ope  the  door,  and  hear  us  carol 

The  burthen  of  our  Christmas  moral — 
Be  ye  merry  and  make  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year  ; 
Scrape  the  fiddle  and  beat  the  drum, 
And  bury  the  night  ere  morning  come. 

There  was  an  inn  beside  a  track, 
As  it  might  be,  the  Jolly  Jack  ; 
Upon  a  night,  whate'er  its  name, 
There  kept  they  Christmas  all  the  same. 
They  sit  in  jovial  round  at  table, 
While  Christ  was  lying  in  the  stable. 
They  make  merry  and  have  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year  ; 
They  scrape  the  fiddle  and  beat  the  drum, 
And  they'll  bury  the  night  ere  morning  come. 

The  jolly  landlord  stands  him  up, 
And  welcomes  all  to  bite  and  sup  ; 
He  has  a  hearty  face  and  red, 
He  knows  not  Who  lies  in  his  shed. 
What  harm,  if  he  be  honest  and  true, 
That  he  may  be  Christ's  landlord  too  ? 
II 


So  he  makes  merry  and  has  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year  ; 
He  scrapes  his  fiddle  and  beats  his  drum, 
And  he'll  bury  the  night  ere  morning  come. 

The  landlord's  son  sits  in  his  place, 
He  bows  his  head  and  says  his  grace  ; 
He  leads  his  partner  to  the  dance, 
And  the  light  of  love  is  in  his  glance. 
If  his  thoughts  are  handsome  as  his  face, 
What  matter  if  Christ  be  in  the  place  ? 
So  he  makes  merry  and  has  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year  ; 
He  scrapes  his  riddle  and  beats  his  drum, 
And  he'll  bury  the  night  ere  morning  come. 

Of  all  the  folk  that  night,  I  ween, 
Some  were  honest  and  some  were  mean  ; 
If  all  were  honest,  'twas  well  for  all, 
For  Christ  was  sleeping  in  the  stall. 
But  never  may  Englishmen  so  fare 
That  they  at  Christmas  should  forbear — 
To  make  them  merry  and  have  good  cheer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year  ; 
To  scrape  the  fiddle  and  beat  the  drum, 
And  bury  the  night  ere  morning  come. 

Geojfrey  Smith. 


12 


To  his  Saviour,  a  Child ;  A  Present,  by  a  Child 

O,  prettie  child,  and  beare  this  Flower 

Unto  thy  little  Saviour  ; 
And  tell  Him,  by  that  Bud  now  blown, 
He  is  the  Rose  of  Sharon  known  : 
When  thou  hast  said  so,  stick  it  there 
Upon  His  Bibb,  or  Stomacher  : 
And  tell  Him  (for  good  handsell  too) 
That  thou  hast  bought  a  Whistle  new, 
Made  of  a  clean  straight  oaten  reed, 
To  charme  His  cries  (at  time  of  need) 
Tell  Him,  for  Corall,  thou  hast  none  ; 
But  if  thou  hadst,  He  sho'd  have  one  ; 
But  poore  thou  art,  and  known  to  be 
Even  as  monilesse  as  He. 
Lastly,  if  thou  canst  win  a  kisse 
From  those  mellifluous  lips  of  His  ; 
Then  never  take  a  second  on, 
To  spoile  the  first  impression. 

Robert  Herrick. 


Old  Christmas     o         o         o        o 

O  now  is  come  our  joyful'st  feast ; 

Let  every  man  be  jolly. 
Each  room  with  ivy-leaves  is  dress'd, 
And  every  post  with  holly. 

13 


Though  some  churls  at  our  mirth  repine, 
Round  your  foreheads  garlands  twine, 
Drown  sorrow  in  a  cup  of  wine, 
And  let  us  all  be  merry. 

Now  all  our  neighbours'  chimneys  smoke, 
And  Christmas  blocks  are  burning  ; 

Their  ovens  they  with  baked  meats  choke. 
And  all  their  spits  are  turning. 

Without  the  door  let  sorrow  lie, 

And  if  for  cold  it  hap  to  die, 

We'll  bury 't  in  a  Christmas  pie, 
And  evermore  be  merry. 

Now  every  lad  is  wondrous  trim, 
And  no  man  minds  his  labour  ; 

Our  lasses  have  provided  them 
A  bag-pipe  and  a  tabor. 

Young  men  and  maids,  and  girls  and  boyss 

Give  life  to  one  another's  joys, 

And  you  anon  shall  by  their  noise 
Perceive  that  they  are  merry. 

Rank  misers  now  do  sparing  shun, 

Their  hall  of  music  soundeth, 
And  dogs  thence  with  whole  shoulders  run, 

So  all  things  there  aboundeth. 
The  country-folks  themselves  advance, 
With  crowdy-muttons  come  out  of  France  ; 
And  Jack  shall  pipe,  and  Jill  shall  dance, 

And  all  the  town  be  merry. 
'4 


Ned  Swash  hath  fetch'd  his  bands  from  pawn, 

And  all  his  best  apparel  ; 
Brisk  Nell  hath  bought  a  ruff  of  lawn 

With  droppings  of  the  barrel ; 
And  those  that  hardly  all  the  year 
Had  bread  to  eat  or  rags  to  wear, 
Will  have  both  clothes  and  dainty  fare, 

And  all  the  day  be  merry. 

Now  poor  men  to  the  justices 

With  capons  make  their  arrants, 
And  if  they  hap  to  fail  of  these 

They  plague  them  with  their  warrants. 
But  now  they  feed  them  with  good  cheer, 
And  what  they  want  they  take  in  beer, 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year, 
And  then  they  shall  be  merry. 

Good  farmers  in  the  country  nurse 
The  poor,  that  else  were  undone. 

Some  landlords  spend  their  money  worse. 
On  lust  and  pride  in  London. 

There  the  roysters  they  do  play, 

Drab  and  dice  their  lands  away, 

Which  may  be  ours  another  day, 
And  therefore  let's  be  merry. 

The  client  now  his  suit  forbears, 

The  prisoner's  heart  is  eased, 
The  debtor  drinks  away  his  cares, 

And  for  the  time  is  pleased. 

15 


Though  others'  purses  be  more  fat, 
Why  should  we  pine  or  grieve  at  that? 
Hang  sorrow,  care  will  kill  a  cat, 
And  therefore  let's  be  merry ! 

Hark  now  the  wags  abroad  do  call 

Each  other  forth  to  rambling  ; 
Anon  you'll  see  them  in  the  hall, 

For  nuts  and  apples  scrambling. 
Hark  how  the  roofs  with  laughter  sound  I 
Anon  they'll  think  the  house  goes  round, 
For  they  the  cellar's  depth  have  found, 

And  there  they  will  be  merry. 

The  wenches  with  their  wassail  bowls 

About  the  streets  are  singing, 
The  boys  are  come  to  catch  the  owls, 

The  wild  mare  in  is  bringing. 
Our  kitchen-boy  hath  broke  his  box, 
And  to  the  dealing  of  the  ox 
Our  honest  neighbours  come  by  flocks, 

And  here  they  will  be  merry. 

Now  kings  and  queens  poor  sheepcotes  have, 

And  mate  with  everybody  ; 
The  honest  now  may  play  the  knave, 

And  wise  men  play  at  noddy. 
Some  youths  will  now  a-mumming  go, 
Some  others  play  at  rowland-hoe, 
And  twenty  other  gameboys,  moe, 

Because  they  will  be  merry. 
16 


Then  wherefore,  in  these  merry  days, 

Should  we,  I  pray,  be  duller  ? 
No  ;  let  us  sing  some  roundelays 

To  make  our  mirth  the  fuller. 
And,  whilst  inspired  thus  we  sing, 
Let  all  the  streets  with  echoes  ring  ; 
Woods  and  hills,  and  everything, 

Bear  witness  we  are  merry. 

George  Wither, 


The  Mahogany  Tree  o 

CHRISTMAS  is  here : 
^-"     Winds  whistle  shrill, 
Icy  and  chill, 
Little  care  we  : 
Little  we  fear 
Weather  without, 
Sheltered  about 
The  Mahogany  Tree. 

Once  on  the  boughs 
Birds  of  rare  plume 
Sang,  in  its  bloom  ; 
Night-birds  are  we : 
Here  we  carouse, 
Singing  like  them, 
Perched  round  the  stem 
Of  the  jolly  old  tree. 


Here  let  us  sport, 
Boys,  as  we  bit  ; 
Laughter  and  wit 
Flashing  so  free. 
Life  is  but  short- 
When  we  are  gone. 
Let  them  sing  on 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Evenings  we  knew, 
Happy  as  this  ; 
Faces  we  miss, 
Pleasant  to  see. 
Kind  hearts  and  true, 
Gentle  and  just, 
Peace  to  your  dust ! 
We  sing  round  the  tree 

Care,  like  a  dun, 
Lurks  at  the  gate  : 
Let  the  dog  wait ; 
Happy  we'll  be  ! 
Drink,  every  one ; 
Pile  up  the  coals, 
Fill  the  red  bowls 
Round  the  old  tree  ! 

Drain  we  the  cup. — 
Friend,  art  afraid  ? 
Spirits  are  laid 
In  the  Red  Sea. 
18 


Mantle  it  up  ; 
Empty  it  yet ; 
Let  us  forget, 
Round  the  old  tree. 

Sorrows,  begone  ! 
Life  and  its  ills, 
Duns  and  their  bills, 
Bid  we  to  flee. 
Come  with  the  dawn, 
Blue-devil  sprite, 
Leave  us  to-night 
Round  the  old  tree. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


Ceremonies  for  Christmasse        -o        o 

/~*OME,  bring  with  a  noise, 

^-'     My  merrie,  merrie  boyes, 
The  Christmas  Log  to  the  firing  ; 

While  my  good  Dame,  she 

Bids  ye  all  be  free  ; 
And  drink  to  your  hearts'  desiring. 

With  the  last  yeere's  brand 
Light  the  new  block,  and 

For  good  successe  in  his  spending, 
On  your  Psaltries  play, 
That  sweet  luck  may 

Come  while  the  Log  is  a-tending. 
'9 


Drink  now  the  strong  Beere, 

Cut  the  white  loafe  here, 
The  while  the  meat  is  a-shredding  ; 

For  the  rare  Mince-Pie 

And  the  Plums  stand  by 
To  fill  the  Paste  that's  a-kneading. 

Robert  Herrick. 


Dr.  Opimian  on  Christmas  -£>         o         o 

T  MYSELF  think  much  of  Christmas  and  all  its 
-^  associations.  I  always  dine  at  home  on  Christ- 
mas Day,  and  measure  the  steps  on  my  children's 
heads  on  the  wall,  and  see  how  much  higher  each  of 
them  has  risen  since  the  same  time  last  year,  in  the 
scale  of  physical  life.  There  are  many  poetical 
charms  in  the  heraldings  of  Christmas.  The  halcyon 
builds  its  nest  on  the  tranquil  sea.  "  The  bird  of 
dawning  singeth  all  night  long."  I  have  never 
verified  either  of  these  poetical  facts.  I  am  willing 
to  take  them  for  granted.  I  like  the  idea  of  the  Yule- 
log,  the  enormous  block  of  wood  carefully  selected 
long  before,  and  preserved  where  it  would  be 
thoroughly  dry,  which  burned  in  the  old-fashioned 
hearth.  It  would  not  suit  the  stoves  of  our  modern 
saloons.  We  could  not  burn  it  in  our  kitchens,  where 
a  small  fire  in  the  midst  of  a  mass  of  black  iron 
roasts,  and  bakes,  and  boils,  and  steams,  and  broils, 
20 


and  fries,  by  a  complicated  apparatus  which,  what- 
ever may  be  its  other  virtues,  leaves  no  space  for  a 
Christmas  fire.  I  like  the  festoons  of  holly  on  the 
walls  and  windows  ;  the  dance  under  the  mistletoe  ; 
the  gigantic  sausage  ;  the  baron  of  beef ;  the  vast 
globe  of  plum-pudding,  the  true  image  of  the  earth, 
flattened  at  the  poles  ;  the  tapping  of  the  old  October  ; 
the  inexhaustible  bowl  01"  punch  ;  the  life  and  joy  of 
the  old  hall,  when  the  squire  and  his  household  and 
his  neighbourhood  were  as  one.  I  like  the  idea  of 
what  has  gone,  and  I  can  still  enjoy  the  reality  of 
what  remains.  I  have  no  doubt  Harry's  father  burns 
the  Yule-log,  and  taps  the  old  October.  Perhaps, 
instead  of  the  beef,  he  produces  a  fat  pig  roasted 
whole,  like  Eumaeus,  the  divine  swineherd  in  the 

Odyssey. 

Thomas  Love  Peacock. 
("  Gryll  Grange.") 


Christmas  Merrymaking         o        o        o 

*~nHE  fire  with  well-dried  logs  supplied 
•*•       Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 
The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 
Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn 
By  old  blue-coated  serving  man  ; 
21 


Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frowned  on  high, 
Crested  with  bay  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green -garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where  the  monster  fell, 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore, 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls, 
Garnished  with  ribbons  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood  and  Christmas  pie  ; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce 
At  such  high-tide  her  savoury  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  masquers  in, 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din  ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song, 
It  was  a  hearty  note  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 
White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made  : 
But  oh  !  what  masquers  richly  dight 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England  when 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
''Twas  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale, 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  would  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 
Sir  Walter  Scott, 


22 


FRIENDS  AND  THE  FIRE 


Reading  ends  in  melancholy ! 

Wine  breeds  vices  and  diseases  ! 
Wealth's  but  a  care,  and  Love  but  folly ; 

Only  Friendship  truly  pleases  ! 
My  wealth,  my  books,  my  flask,  my  MOLLY, 

Farewell  all,  if  Friendship  ceases  ! 

Matthew  Prior. 


Conversation  is  but  carving  ; 
Give  no  more  to  every  guest 
Than  he's  able  to  digest ; 
Give  him  always  of  the  prime, 
And  but  a  little  at  a  time  ; 
Give  to  all  but  just  enough, 
Let  them  neither  starve  nor  stuff, 
And  that  each  may  have  his  due, 
Let  your  neighbour  carve  for  you. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 


My  friend,  what  you  said  to  me  about  the  smoking  -  cell 
vibrated  to  my  very  heart,  as  worthy  of  the  kindness  which,  for 
many  years  and  upon  many  subjects,  you  had  professed,  and 
you  had  felt,  and  you  had  practically  manifested  towards  my- 
self. So,  into  the  little  room,  of  which  you  spoke  so  courteously. 
I  will  come;  talk  unreservedly,  cheerfully,  and  abundantly 
upon  anything  or  nothing ;  and  fumigate  the  ceiling  from  the 
hot,  and  copious,  and  fragrant  exhalations  of  my  pipe. 

Dr.  Parr. 


To  my  Worthy  Friend,  Master  T.  Lewes        o 

EES  not  my  friend,  what  a  deep  snow 
Candies  our  country's  woody  brow  ? 
The  yielding  branch  his  load  scarce  bears, 
Oppress'd  with  snow  and  frozen  tears  ; 
While  the  dumb  rivers  slowly  float, 
All  bound  up  in  an  icy  coat. 

Let  us  meet  then  !  and  while  this  world 
In  wild  eccentrics  now  is  hurl'd, 
Keep  we,  like  nature,  the  same  key, 
And  walk  in  our  forefathers'  way. 
Why  any  more  cast  we  an  eye 
On  what  may  come,  not  what  is  nigh  ? 
Why  vex  ourselves  with  fear  or  hope, 
And  cares  beyond  our  horoscope  ? 
Who  into  future  times  would  peer, 
Looks  oft  beyond  his  time  set  here, 
And  cannot  go  into  those  grounds 
But  through  a  churchyard,  which  them  bounds. 
Sorrows  and  sighs  and  searches  spend, 
And  draw  our  bottom  to  an  end, 
But  discreet  joys  lengthen  the  lease, 
Without  which  life  were  a  disease  ; 
25 


And  who  this  age  a  mourner  goes, 
Doth  with  his  tears  but  feed  his  foes. 

Henry  Vaughan. 


Heraclitus    (After  Callimachus)    o        o        o 

'"PHEY  told  me,  Heraclitus,  they  told  me  you  were 
•*-      dead, 
They  brought  me  bitter  news  to  hear  and  bitter  tears 

to  shed. 

I  wept  as  I  remembered  how  often  you  and  I 
Had  tired  the  sun  with  talking  and  sent  him  down  the 

sky. 

\ 

And  now  that  thou  art  lying,  my  dear  old  Carian  guest, 
A  handful  of  grey  ashes,  long,  long  ago  at  rest, 
Still  are  thy  pleasant  voices,  thy  nightingales,  awake  ; 
For  Death,  he  taketh  all  away,  but  them  he  cannot 
take. 

William  Cory. 


To  Mr.  Lawrence   o        o        <?•        o        o 

AWRENCE,  of  virtuous  father  virtuous  son, 

Now  that  the  fields  are  dank  and  ways  are  mire, 
Where  shall  we  sometimes  meet,  and  by  the  fire 
Help  waste  a  sullen  day,  what  may  be  won 
26 


From  the  hard  season  gaining?    Time  will  run 
On  smoother,  till  Favonius  re-inspire 
The  frozen  earth,  and  clothe  in  fresh  attire 

The  lily  and  rose,  that  neither  sow'd  nor  spun. 

What  neat  repast  shall  feast  us,  light  and  choice 
Of  Attic  taste,  with  wine,  whence  we  may  rise 
To  hear  the  lute  well  touch'd,  or  artful  voice 
Warble  immortal  notes  and  Tuscan  air? 
He  who  of  these  delights  can  judge,  and  spare 
To  interpose  them  oft,  is  not  unwise. 

J.  Milton. 


To  Cyriack  Skinner        e>        o        o        *e> 

/""'YRIACK,  whose  grandsire,  on  the  royal  bench 
^-'     Of  British  Themis,  with  no  mean  applause 

Pronounc'd,  and  in  his  volumes  taught,  our  laws, 
Which  others  at  their  bar  so  often  wrench  ; 
To-day  deep  thoughts  resolve  with  me  to  drench 

In  mirth,  that  after  no  repenting  draws  ; 

Let  Euclid  rest,  and  Archimedes  pause, 
And  what  the  Swede  intend,  and  what  the  French. 
To  measure  life  learn  thou  betimes,  and  know 

Toward  solid  good  what  leads  the  nearest  way ; 
For  other  things  mild  Heav'n  a  time  ordains, 
And  disapproves  that  care,  though  wise  in  show, 

That  with  superfluous  burden  loads  the  day, 
And,  when  God  sends  a  cheerful  hour,  refrains. 

/.  Milton. 

27 


Mr.  William  Hervey 


MY  sweet  companion,  and  my  gentle  peer, 
Why  hast  thou  left  me  thus  unkindly  here, 
Thy  end  for  ever,  and  my  life,  to  moan  ? 

O  thou  hast  left  me  all  alone  ! 
Thy  soul  and  body,  when  death's  agony 
Besieged  around  thy  noble  heart, 
Did  not  with  more  reluctance  part 
Than  I,  my  dearest  friend,  do  part  from  thee. 


Ye  fields  of  Cambridge,  our  dear  Cambridge,  say, 

Have  ye  not  seen  us  walking  every  day  ? 

Was  there  a  tree  about  which  did  not  know 
The  love  betwixt  us  two  ? 

Henceforth,  ye  gentle  trees,  for  ever  fade, 
Or  your  sad  branches  thicker  join, 
And  into  darksome  shades  combine, 

Dark  as  the  grave  wherein  my  friend  is  laid. 


Large  was  his  soul ;  as  large  a  soul  as  e'er 

Submitted  to  inform  a  body  here  ; 

High  as  the  place  'twas  shortly  in  Heaven  to  have, 

But  low  and  humble  as  his  grave  ; 
So  high  that  all  the  virtues  there  did  come 

As  to  the  chiefest  seat 

Conspicuous,  and  great ; 
So  low  that  for  me  too  it  made  a  room. 
28 


Knowledge  he  only  sought,  and  so  soon  caught, 
As  if  for  him  knowledge  had  rather  sought  ; 
Nor  did  more  learning  ever  crowded  lie 

In  such  a  short  mortality. 
Whene'er  the  skilful  youth  discoursed  or  writ, 

Still  did  the  notions  throng 

About  his  eloquent  tongue  ; 
Nor  could  his  ink  flow  faster  than  his  wit. 

His  mirth  was  the  pure  spirits  of  various  wit, 

Yet  never  did  his  God  or  friends  forget; 

And  when  deep  talk  and  wisdom  came  in  view, 
Retired,  and  gave  to  them  their  due. 

For  the  rich  help  of  books  he  always  took, 

Though  his  own  searching  mind  before 
Was  so  with  notions  written  o'er, 

As  if  wise  Nature  had  made  that  her  book. 

With  as  much  zeal,  devotion,  piety, 

He  always  lived,  as  other  saints  do  die. 

Still  with  his  soul  severe  account  he  kept, 
Weeping  all  debts  out  ere  he  slept. 

Then  down  in  peace  and  innocence  he  lay, 
Like  the  sun's  laborious  light, 
Which  still  in  water  sets  at  night, 

Unsullied  with  his  journey  of  the  day. 

But  happy  thou,  ta'en  from  this  frantic  age, 
Where  ignorance  and  hypocrisy  does  rage  I 
A  fitter  time  for  heaven  no  soul  ere  chose, 
The  place  now  only  free  from  those. 

.29 


There  'mong  the  blest  thou  dost  for  ever  shine, 
And  wheresoe'er  thou  cast  thy  view 
Upon  that  white  and  radiant  crew, 

See'st  not  a  soul  cloth'd  with  more  light  than  thine. 

Abraham  Cowley. 


Friends 


\7OU  ask  me  "  why  I  like  him."     Nay, 
-••       I  cannot ;  nay,  I  would  not,  say. 
I  think  it  vile  to  pigeonhole 
The  pros  and  cons  of  a  kindred  soul. 


You  "  wonder  he  should  be  my  friend." 
But  then  why  should  you  comprehend  ? 
Thank  God  for  this — a  new — surprise  : 
My  eyes,  remember,  are  not  your  eyes. 

Cherish  this  one  small  mystery  ; 
And  marvel  not  that  love  can  be 
'•  In  spite  of  all  his  many  flaws." 
In  spite  ?  Supposing  I  said  "  Because." 

A  truce,  a  truce  to  questioning  : 
"  We  two  are  friends  "  tells  everything. 
Yet  if  you  must  know,  this  is  why  : 
Because  he  is  he  and  I  am  I. 

E.  V.  L. 
3° 


Mimnermus  in  Church       o        o        o        < 

YOU  promise  heavens  free  from  strife, 
Pure  truth,  and  perfect  change  of  will  ; 
But  sweet,  sweet  is  this  human  life, 

So  sweet,  I  fain  would  breathe  it  still. 
Your  chilly  stars  I  can  forego, 
This  warm  kind  world  is  all  1  know. 

You  say  there  is  no  substance  here, 

One  great  reality  above  : 
Back  from  that  void  I  shrink  in  fear, 

And  child-like  hide  myself  in  love  : 
Show  me  what  angels  feel.     Till  then, 
I  cling,  a  mere  weak  man,  to  men. 

You  bid  me  lift  my  mean  desires 
From  faltering  lips  and  fitful  veins 

To  sexless  souls,  ideal  quires, 

Unwearied  voices,  wordless  strains  : 

My  mind  with  fonder  welcome  owns 

One  dear  dead  friend's  remembered  tones. 

Forsooth  the  present  we  must  give 
To  that  which  cannot  pass  away  ; 

All  beauteous  things  for  which  we  live 
By  laws  of  time  and  space  decay. 

But  oh,  the  very  reason  why 

I  clasp  them,  is  because  they  die. 

William  Cory. 

31 


By  the  Fireside       -£>        o        <>  •& 

T  T  OW  well  I  know  what  I  mean  to  do 
•••  •*•     When  the  long  dark  autumn-evenings  come 
And  where,  my  soul,  is  thy  pleasant  hue  ? 
With  the  music  of  all  thy  voices  dumb, 
In  life's  November  too  ! 

I  shall  be  found  by  the  fire,  suppose, 
O'er  a  great  wise  book  as  beseemeth  age, 

While  the  shutters  flap  as  the  cross-wind  blows. 
And  I  turn  the  page,  and  I  turn  the  page, 

Not  verse  now,  only  prose  ! 

Till  the  young  ones  whisper,  finger  on  lip, 

"  There  he  is  at  it,  deep  in  Greek  : 
Now  then,  or  never,  out  we  slip 

To  cut  from  the  hazels  by  the  creek 
A  mainmast  for  our  ship  ! " 

I  shall  be  at  it  indeed,  my  friends  : 

Greek  puts  already  on  either  side 
Such  a  branch-work  forth  as  soon  extends 

To  a  vista  opening  far  and  wide, 
And  I  pass  out  where  it  ends. 

The  outside-frame,  like  your  hazel-trees 

But  the  inside-archway  widens  fast, 
And  a  rarer  sort  succeeds  to  these, 

And  we  slope  to  Italy  at  last, 
And  youth,  by  green  degrees. 
32 


I  follow  wherever  I  am  led, 

Knowing  so  well  the  leader's  hand  : 

Oh  woman-country,  wooed  not  wed, 

Loved  all  the  more  by  earth's  male-lands, 

Laid  to  their  hearts  instead  ! 

Look  at  the  ruined  chapel  again, 
Half-way  up  in  the  Alpine  gorge  ! 

Is  that  a  tower,  I  point  you  plain, 
Or  is  it  a  mill,  or  an  iron-forge 

Breaks  solitude  in  vain  ? 

A  turn,  and  we  stand  in  the  heart  of  things  ; 

The  woods  are  round  us,  heaped  and  dim  ; 
From  slab  to  slab  how  it  slips  and  springs, 

The  thread  of  water  single  and  slim, 
Through  the  ravage  some  torrent  brings  ! 

Does  it  feed  the  little  lake  below  ? 

That  speck  of  white  just  on  its  marge 
Is  Pella  ;  see,  in  the  evening-glow, 

How  sharp  the  silver  spear-heads  charge 
When  Alp  meets  heaven  in  snow  ! 

On  our  other  side  is  the  straight-up  rock  ; 

And  a  path  is  kept  'twixt  the  gorge  and  it 
By  boulder-stones,  where  lichens  mock 

The  marks  on  a  moth,  and  small  ferns  fit 
Their  teeth  to  the  polished  block. 

c  33 


Oh  the  sense  of  the  yellow  mountain-flowers, 
And  thorny  balls,  each  three  in  one, 

The  chestnuts  throw  on  our  path  in  showers  ! 
For  the  drop  of  the  woodland  fruit's  begun, 

These  early  November  hours, 

That  crimson  the  creeper's  leaf  across 
Like  a  splash  of  blood,  intense,  abrupt, 

O'er  a  shield  else  gold  from  rim  to  boss, 
And  lay  it  for  show  on  the  fairy-cupped 

Elf-needled  mat  of  moss, 

By  the  rose-flesh  mushrooms,  undivulged 
Last  evening — nay,  in  to-day's  first  dew 

Yon  sudden  coral  nipple  bulged, 

Where  a  freaked  fawn-coloured  flaky  crew 

Of  toadstools  peep  indulged. 

And  yonder,  at  foot  of  the  fronting  ridge 
That  takes  the  turn  to  a  range  beyond, 

Is  the  chapel  reached  by  the  one-arched  bridge 
Where  the  water  is  stopped  in  a  stagnant  pond 

Danced  over  by  the  midge. 

The  chapel  and  bridge  are  of  stone  alike, 

Blackish-grey  and  mostly  wet ; 
Cut  hemp-stalks  steep  in  the  narrow  dyke. 

See  here  again,  how  the  lichens  fret 
And  the  roots  of  the  ivy  strike  ! 

34 


Poor  little  place,  where  its  one  priest  comes 

On  a  festa-day,  if  he  comes  at  all, 
To  the  dozen  folk  from  their  scattered  homes, 

Gathered  within  that  precinct  small 
By  the  dozen  ways  one  roams — 

To  drop  from  the  charcoal-burners'  huts, 
Or  climb  from  the  hemp-dressers'  low  shed, 

Leave  the  grange  where  the  woodman  stores  his  nuts, 
Or  the  wattled  cote  where  the  fowlers  spread 

Their  gear  on  the  rock's  bare  juts. 

It  has  some  pretension  too,  this  front, 

With  its  bit  of  fresco  half-moon-wise 
Set  over  the  porch,  Art's  early  wont  : 

Tis  John  in  the  Desert,  I  surmise, 
But  has  borne  the  weather's  brunt— 

Not  from  the  fault  of  the  builder,  though, 

For  a  pent-house  properly  projects 
Where  three  carved  beams  make  a  certain  show, 

Dating — good  thought  of  our  architect's — 
Five,  six,  nine,  he  lets  you  know. 

And  all  day  long  a  bird  sings  there, 
And  a  stray  sheep  drinks  at  the  pond  at  times  ; 

The  place  is  silent  and  aware  ; 

It  has  had  its  scenes,  its  joys  and  crimes, 

But  that  is  its  own  affair. 

35 


My  perfect  wife,  my  Leonor, 

Oh  heart,  my  own,  oh  eyes,  mine  too, 

Whom  else  could  I  dare  look  backward  for, 
With  whom  beside  should  I  dare  pursue 

The  path  grey  heads  abhor  ? 

For  it  leads  to  a  crag's  sheer  edge  with  them  ; 

Youth,  flowery  all  the  way,  there  stops — 
Not  they  ;  age  threatens  and  they  contemn, 

Till  they  reach  the  gulf  wherein  youth  drops, 
One  inch  from  life's  safe  hem  ! 

With  me,  youth  led  ...  I  will  speak  now, 

No  longer  watch  you  as  you  sit 
Reading  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Mutely,  my  heart  knows  how — 

When,  if  I  think  but  deep  enough, 
You  are  wont  to  answer,  prompt  as  rhyme  ; 

And  you,  too,  find  without  rebuff 

Response  your  soul  seeks  many  a  time 

Piercing  its  fine  flesh-stuff. 

My  own,  confirm  me  !     If  I  tread 

This  path  back,  is  it  not  in  pride 
To  think  how  little  I  dreamed  it  led 

To  an  age  so  blest  that,  by  its  side, 
Youth  seems  the  waste  instead  ? 
36 


My  own,  see  where  the  years  conduct ! 

At  first,  'twas  something  our  two  souls 
Should  mix  as  mists  do  ;  each  is  sucked 

In  each  now  :  on,  the  new  stream  rolls, 
Whatever  rocks  obstruct. 

Think,  when  our  one  soul  understands 

The  great  Word  which  makes  all  things  new 

When  earth  breaks  up  and  heaven  expands,. 
How  will  the  change  strike  me  and  you 

In  the  house  not  made  with  hands  ? 

Oh,  I  must  feel  your  brain  prompt  mine, 

Your  heart  anticipate  my  heart, 
You  must  be  just  before,  in  fine, 

See  and  make  me  see,  for  your  part, 
New  depths  of  the  divine  ! 

But  who  could  have  expected  this 

When  we  two  drew  together  first 
Just  for  the  obvious  human  bliss, 

To  satisfy  life's  daily  thirst 
With  a  thing  men  seldom  miss? 

Come  back  with  me  to  the  first  of  all. 

Let  us  lean  and  love  it  over  again, 
Let  us  now  forget  and  now  recall, 

Break  the  rosary  in  a  pearly  rain, 
And  gather  what  we  let  fall  ! 

37 


What  did  I  say?— that  a  small  bird  sings 
All  day  long,  save  when  a  brown  pair 

Of  hawks  from  the  wood  float  with  wide  wings 
Strained  to  a  bell :  'gainst  noon-day  glare 

You  count  the  streaks  and  rings. 

But  at  afternoon  or  almost  eve 
Tis  better  ;  then  the  silence  grows 

To  that  degree  you  half  believe 
It  must  get  rid  of  what  it  knows, 

Its  bosom  does  so  heave. 

Hither  we  walked  then,  side  by  side, 

Arm  in  arm  and  cheek  to  cheek, 
And  still  I  questioned  or  replied, 

While  my  heart,  convulsed  to  really  speak, 
Lay  choking  in  its  pride. 

Silent  the  crumbling  bridge  we  cross, 
And  pity  and  praise  the  chapel  sweet, 

And  care  about  the  fresco's  loss, 
And  wish  for  our  souls  a  like  retreat, 

And  wonder  at  the  moss. 

Stoop  and  kneel  on  the  settle  under, 

Look  through  the  window's  grated  square  : 

Nothing  to  see  !     For  fear  of  plunder, 
The  cross  is  down  and  the  altar  bare, 

As  if  thieves  don't  fear  thunder. 
38 


We  stoop  and  look  in  through  the  grate, 
See  the  little  porch  and  rustic  door, 

Read  duly  the  dead  builder's  date  ; 
Then  cross  the  bridge  that  we  crossed  before, 

Take  the  path  again — but  wait ! 

Oh  moment,  one  and  infinite  ! 

The  water  slips  o'er  stock  and  stone  ; 
The  West  is  tender,  hardly  bright : 

How  grey  at  once  is  the  evening  grown — 
One  star,  its  chrysolite  ! 

We  two  stood  there  with  never  a  third, 
But  each  by  each,  as  each  knew  well : 

The  sights  we  saw  and  the  sounds  we  heard, 
The  lights  and  the  shades  made  up  a  spell 

Till  the  trouble  grew  and  stirred 

Oh,  the  little  more,  and  how  much  it  is  ! 

And  the  little  less,  and  what  worlds  away  ! 
How  a  sound  shall  quicken  content  to  bliss, 

Or  a  breath  suspend  the  blood's  best  play, 
And  life  be  a  proof  of  this  ! 

Had  she  willed  it,  still  had  stood  the  screen 
So  slight,  so  sure,  'twixt  my  love  and  her  : 

I  could  fix  her  face  with  a  guard  between, 
And  find  her  soul  as  when  friends  confer, 

Friends — lovers  that  might  have  been. 

39 


For  my  heart  had  a  touch  of  the  woodland-time, 
Wanting  to  sleep  now  over  its  best. 

Shake  the  whole  tree  in  the  summer-prime, 
But  bring  to  the  last  leaf  no  such  test ! 

"  Hold  the  last  fast !  "  runs  the  rhyme. 

For  a  chance  to  make  your  little  much, 

To  gain  a  lover  and  lose  a  friend, 
Venture  the  tree  and  a  myriad  such, 

When  nothing  you  mar  but  the  year  can  mend 
But  a  last  leaf — fear  to  touch  ! 

Yet  should  it  unfasten  itself  and  fall 
Eddying  down  till  it  find  your  face 

At  some  slight  wind — best  chance  of  all ! 
Be  your  heart  henceforth  its  dwelling-place 

You  trembled  to  forestall ! 

Worth  how  well,  those  dark  grey  eyes, 
That  hair  so  dark  and  dear,  how  worth 

That  a  man  should  strive  and  agonize, 
And  taste  a  veriest  hell  on  earth 

For  the  hope  of  such  a  prize  ! 

You  might  have  turned  and  tried  a  man, 
Set  him  a  space  to  weary  and  wear, 

And  prove  which  suited  more  your  plan, 
His  best  of  hope  or  his  worst  despair, 

Yet  end  as  he  began. 

40 


But  you  spared  me  this,  like  the  heart  you  are, 
And  filled  my  empty  heart  at  a  word. 

If  two  lives  join,  there  is  oft  a  scar, 
They  are  one  and  one,  with  a  shadowy  third  ; 

One  near  one  is  too  far. 

A  moment  after,  and  hands  unseen 

Were  hanging  the  night  around  us  fast ; 

But  we  knew  that  a  bar  was  broken  between 
Life  and  life  :  we  were  mixed  at  last 

In  spite  of  the  mortal  screen. 

The  forests  had  done  it  ;  there  they  stood  ; 

We  caught  for  a  moment  the  powers  at  play 
They  had  mingled  us  so,  for  once  and  good, 

Their  work  was  done— we  might  go  or  stay, 
They  relapsed  to  their  ancient  mood. 

How  the  world  is  made  for  each  of  us  ! 

How  all  we  perceive  and  know  in  it 
Tends  to  some  moment's  product  thus, 

When  a  soul  declares  itself — to  wit, 
By  its  fruit,  the  thing  it  does  ! 

Be  hate  that  fruit  or  love  that  fruit, 
It  forwards  the  general  deed  of  man, 

And  each  of  the  Many  helps  to  recruit 
The  life  of  the  race  by  a  general  plan 

Each  living  his  own,  to  boot 

41 


I  am  named  and  known  by  that  moment's  feat ; 

There  took  my  station  and  degree  ; 
So  grew  my  own  small  life  complete, 

As  nature  obtained  her  best  of  me — 
One  born  to  love  you,  sweet ! 

And  to  watch  you  sink  by  the  fireside  now 

Back  again,  as  you  mutely  sit 
Musing  by  fire-light,  that  great  brow, 

And  the  spirit-small  hand  propping  it, 
Yonder,  my  heart  knows  how  ! 

So,  earth  has  gained  by  one  man  the  more, 
And  the  gain  of  earth  must  be  heaven's  gain  too  ; 

And  the  whole  is  well  worth  thinking  o'er 
When  autumn  comes  :  which  I  mean  to  do 

One  day,  as  I  said  before. 

Robert  Browning. 


Mr.  Hunter  o        *t>        o        o        o 

T  T  IS  humour  was  perfectly  equable,  set  beyond  the 
•*•  -*•  reach  of  fate ;  gout,  rheumatism,  stone  and 
gravel  might  have  combined  their  forces  against  that 
frail  tabernacle,  but  when  I  came  round  on  Sunday 
evening,  he  would  lay  aside  Jeremy  Taylors  Life  of 
Christ  and  greet  me  with  the  same  open  brow,  the 
same  kind  formality  of  manner.  His  opinions  and 
sympathies  dated  the  man  almost  to  a  decade.  He 
42 


had  begun  life,  under  his  mother's  influence,  as  an 
admirer  of  Junius,  but  on  maturer  knowledge  had 
transferred  his  admiration  to  Burke.  He  cautioned 
me,  with  entire  gravity,  to  be  punctilious  in  writing 
English  ;  never  to  forget  that  I  was  a  Scotchman, 
that  English  was  a  foreign  tongue,  and  that  if  I 
attempted  the  colloquial,  I  should  certainly  be 
shamed  :  the  remark  was  apposite,  I  suppose,  in 
the  days  of  David  Hume.  Scott  was  too  new  for 
him  ;  he  had  known  the  author  —  known  him,  too, 
for  a  Tory  ;  and  to  the  genuine  classic  a  contemporary 
is  always  something  of  a  trouble.  He  had  the  old 
love,  serious  love  of  the  play ;  had  even,  as  he  was 
proud  to  tell,  played  a  certain  part  in  the  history  of 
Shakespearian  revivals,  for  he  had  successfully  pressed 
on  Murray,  of  the  old  Edinburgh  Theatre,  the  idea  of 
producing  Shakespeare's  fairy  pieces  with  great 
scenic  display.  A  moderate  in  religion,  he  was  much 
struck  in  the  last  years  of  his  life  by  a  conversation 
with  two  young  lads,  revivalists.  "  H'm,"  he  would 
say — "new  to  me.  I  have  had — h'm — no  such  ex- 
perience." It  struck  him,  not  with  pain,  rather  with 
a  solemn  philosophic  interest,  that  he,  a  Christian  as 
he  hoped,  and  a  Christian  of  so  old  a  standing,  should 
hear  these  young  fellows  talking  of  his  own  subject, 
his  own  weapons  that  he  had  fought  the  battle  of 
life  with,  —  "and  —  h'm — not  understand."  In  this 
wise  and  graceful  attitude  he  did  justice  to  himself 
and  others,  reposed  unshaken  in  his  old  beliefs,  and 
recognised  their  limits  without  anger  or  alarm.  His 

43 


last  recorded  remark,  on  the  last  night  of  his  life,  was 
after  he  had  been  arguing  against  Calvinism  with  his 
minister  and  was  interrupted  by  an  intolerable  pang. 
"  After  all,"  he  said,  "  of  all  the  'isms,  I  know  none  so 
bad  as  rheumatism."  My  own  last  sight  of  him  was 
some  time  before,  when  we  dined  together  at  an  inn  ; 
he  had  been  on  circuit,  for  he  stuck  to  his  duties  like 
a  chief  part  of  his  existence  ;  and  I  remember  it  as 
the  only  occasion  on  which  he  ever  soiled  his  lips  with 
slang — a  thing  he  loathed.  We  were  both  Roberts  ; 
and  as  we  took  our  places  at  table,  he  addressed  me 
with  a  twinkle  :  "  We  are  just  what  you  would  call 
two  bob."  He  offered  me  port,  I  remember,  as  the 
proper  milk  of  youth;  s;  oke  of  "twenty-shilling 
notes "  ;  and  throughout  the  meal  was  full  of  old- 
world  pleasantry  and  quaintness,  like  an  ancient  boy 
on  a  holiday.  But  what  I  recall  chiefly  was  his 
confession  that  he  had  never  read  Othello  to  an  end. 
Shakespeare  was  his  continual  study.  He  loved  nothing 
better  than  to  display  his  knowledge  and  memory 
by  adducing  parallel  passages  from  Shakespeare, 
passages  where  the  same  word  was  employed,  or 
the  same  idea  differently  treated.  But  Othello  had 
beaten  him.  "That  noble  gentleman  and  that  noble 
lady— h'm— too  painful  for  me."  The  same  night  the 
hoardings  were  covered  with  posters,  "  Burlesque  of 
Othello"  and  the  contrast  blazed  up  in  my  mind  like 
a  bonfire.  An  unforgettable  look  it  gave  me  into  that 
kind  man's  soul.  His  acquaintance  was  indeed  a 
liberal  and  pious  education.  All  the  humanities  were 
44 


taught  in  that  bare  dining-room  beside  his  gouty 
footstool.  He  was  a  piece  of  good  advice  ;  he  was 
himself  the  instance  that  pointed  and  adorned  his 
various  talk.  Nor  could  a  young  man  have  found 
elsewhere  a  place  so  set  apart  from  envy,  fear, 
discontent,  or  any  of  the  passions  that  debase  ;  a  life 
so  honest  and  composed  ;  a  soul  like  an  ancient 
violin,  so  subdued  to  harmony,  responding  to  a  touch 
in  music — as  in  that  dining-room,  with  Mr.  Hunter 
chatting  at  the  eleventh  hour,  under  the  shadow  of 
eternity,  fearless  and  gentle. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 


To  O.  W.  Holmes.     On  his  Seventy-Fifth  Birthday 


Wendell,  why  need  count  the  years 
Since  first  your  genius  made  me  thrill, 
If  what  moved  then  to  smiles  or  tears, 
Or  both  contending,  move  me  still  ? 

What  has  the  Calendar  to  do 

With  poets?     What  Time's  fruitless  tooth 
With  gay  immortals  such  as  you, 

Whose  years  but  emphasise  your  youth  ? 

One  air  gave  both  their  lease  of  breath  ; 

The  same  paths  lured  our  boyish  feet ; 
One  earth  will  hold  us  safe  in  death, 

With  dust  of  saints  and  scholars  sweet. 

45 


Our  legends  from  one  source  were  drawn, 
I  scarce  distinguish  yours  from  mine, 

And  dorit  we  make  the  Gentiles  yawn 
With  "  You  remembers  ?  "  o'er  our  wine  ! 

If  I,  with  too  senescent  air, 

Invade  your  elder  memory's  pale, 

You  snub  me  with  a  pitying  "  Where 
Were  you  in  the  September  Gale  ?  " 

Both  stared  entranced  at  Lafayette, 
Saw  Jackson  dubbed  with  LL.D.; 

What  Cambridge  saw  not  strikes  us  yet 
As  scarcely  worth  one's  while  to  see. 

Ten  years  my  senior,  when  my  name 
In  Harvard's  entrance-book  was  writ, 

Her  halls  still  echoed  with  the  fame 
Of  you,  her  poet  and  her  wit. 

'Tis  fifty  years  from  then  to  now  : 
But  your  Last  Leaf  renews  its  green, 

Though,  for  the  laurels  on  your  brow 
(So  thick  they  crowd)  'tis  hardly  seen 

The  oriole's  fledglings  fifty  times 
Have  flown  from  our  familiar  elms  ; 

As  many  poets  with  their  rhymes 
Oblivion's  darkling  dust  o'erwhelms. 
46 


The  birds  are  hushed,  the  poets  gone 
Where  no  harsh  critic's  lash  can  reach. 

And  still  your  wingM  brood  sing  on 
To  all  who  love  our  English  speech. 

Nay,  let  the  foolish  records  be 

That  make  believe  you're  seventy-five  : 
You're  the  old  Wendell  still  to  me, — 

And  that's  the  youngest  man  alive. 

The  grey-blue  eyes,  I  see  them  still, 
The  gallant  front  with  brown  o'erhung, 

The  shape  alert,  the  wit  at  will, 
The  phrase  that  stuck,  but  never  stung. 

You  keep  your  youth  as  yon  Scotch  firs, 
Whose  gaunt  line  my  horizon  hems, 

Though  twilight  all  the  lowland  blurs, 
Hold  sunset  in  their  ruddy  stems. 

You  with  the  elders  ?    Yes,  'tis  true, 

But  in  no  sadly  literal  sense, 
With  elders  and  coevals  too, 

Whose  verb  admits  no  preterite  tense. 

Master  alike  in  speech  and  song 
Of  fame's  great  antiseptic — Style, 

You  with  the  classic  few  belong 
Who  tempered  wisdom  with  a  smile. 

47 


Outlive  us  all !     Who  else  like  you 
Could  sift  the  seedcorn  from  our  chaff, 

And  make  us  with  the  pen  we  knew 
Deathless  at  least  in  epitaph  ? 

/.  R.  Lowell. 


Clay 


"  "\  1  7E  are  but  clay,"  the  preacher  saith  ; 

V  V      «  The  heart  js  clay,  and  clay  the  brain, 
And  soon  or  late  there  cometh  death 

To  mingle  us  with  earth  again." 

Well,  let  the  preacher  have  it  so, 

And  clay  we  are,  and  clay  shall  be  ; — 

Why  iterate  ? — for  this  I  know, 
That  clay  does  very  well  for  me. 

When  clay  has  such  red  mouths  to  kiss, 
Firm  hands  to  grasp,  it  is  enough  : 

How  can  I  take  it  aught  amiss 
We  are  not  made  of  rarer  stuff? 

And  if  one  tempt  you  to  believe 

His  choice  would  be  immortal  gold, 

Question  him,  Can  you  then  conceive 
A  warmer  heart  than  clay  can  hold  ? 

Or  richer  joys  than  clay  can  feel  ? 
And  when  perforce  he  falters  nay, 
48 


Bid  him  renounce  his  wish,  and  kneel 
In  thanks  for  this  same  kindly  clay. 

E.  V.  L. 


Edmund  Quincy     e>        o        o        *z> 

D  Friend,  farewell !     Your  kindly  door  again 
I  enter,  but  the  master's  hand  in  mine 
No  more  clasps  welcome,  and  the  temperate  wine, 
That  cheered  our  long  nights,  other  lips  must  stain  : 
All  is  unchanged,  but  I  expect  in  vain 
The  face  alert,  the  manners  free  and  fine, 
The  seventy  years  borne  lightly  as  the  pine 
Wears  its  first  down  of  snow  in  green  disdain  : 
Much  did  he,  and  much  well ;  yet  most  of  all 
I  prized  his  skill  in  leisure  and  the  ease 
Of  a  life  flowing  full  without  a  plan  ; 
For  most  are  idly  busy  ;  him  I  call 
Thrice  fortunate  who  knew  himself  to  please, 
Learned  in  those  arts  that  make  a  gentleman. 

/.  R.  Lowell 


Inter  Sodales 


a  pipe  the  Angel  of  Conversation 
Loosens  with  glee  the  tassels  of  his  purse, 
And,  in  a  fine  spiritual  exaltation, 
Hastens,  a  rosy  spendthrift,  to  disburse 
The  coins  new  minted  of  imagination. 
D  49 


An  amiable,  a  delicate  animation 
Informs  our  thought,  and  earnest  we  rehearse 
The  sweet  old  farce  of  mutual  admiration 
Over  a  pipe. 

Heard  in  this  hour's  delicious  divagation 
How  soft  the  song  !  the  epigram  how  terse  ! 
With  what  a  genius  for  administration 
We  rearrange  the  rumbling  universe, 
And  map  the  course  of  man's  regeneration 

Over  a  pipe. 

W.  E.  Henley. 


To  C.  F.  Bradford.    On  the  Gift  of  a  Meerschaum 
Pipe     o        *£>         o        -£>         «2>         -^ 

T  I""HE  pipe  came  safe,  and  welcome  too, 
•*•      As  anything  must  be  from  you  ; 
A  meerschaum  pure,  'twould  float  as  light 
As  she  the  girls  call  Amphitrite. 
Mixture  divine  of  foam  and  clay, 
From  both  it  stole  the  best  away  : 
Its  foam  is  such  as  crowns  the  glow 
Of  beakers  brimmed  by  Veuve  Clicquot ; 
Its  clay  is  but  congested  lymph 
Jove  chose  to  make  some  choicer  nymph  ; 
And  here  combined, — why,  this  must  be 
The  birth  of  some  enchanted  sea, 
Shaped  to  immortal  form,  the  type 
And  very  Venus  of  a  pipe. 

5° 


When  high  I  heap  it  with  the  weed 
From  Lethe  wharf,  whose  potent  seed 
Nicotia,  big  from  Bacchus,  bore 
And  cast  upon  Virginia's  shore, 
I'll  think,— So  fill  the  fairer  bowl 
And  wise  alembic  of  thy  soul, 
With  herbs  far-sought  that  shall  distil, 
Not  fumes  to  slacken  thought  and  will, 
But  bracing  essences  that  nerve 
To  wait,  to  dare,  to  strive,  to  serve. 

When  curls  the  smoke  in  eddies  soft, 

And  hangs  a  shifting  dream  aloft, 

That  gives  and  takes,  though  chance-designed, 

The  impress  of  the  dreamer's  mind, 

I'll  think, — So  let  the  vapours  bred 

By  Passion,  in  the  heart  or  head, 

Pass  off  and  upward  into  space, 

Waving  farewells  of  tenderest  grace, 

Remembered  in  some  happier  time, 

To  blend  their  beauty  with  my  rhyme. 

While  slowly  o'er  its  candid  bowl 
The  colour  deepens  (as  the  soul 
That  burns  in  mortals  leaves  its  trace 
Of  bale  or  beauty  on  the  face), 
I'll  think, — So  let  the  essence  rare 
Of  years  consuming  make  me  fair  ; 
So,  'gainst  the  ills  of  life  profuse, 
Steep  me  in  some  narcotic  juice  ; 


And  if  my  soul  must  part  with  all 
That  whiteness  which  we  greenness  call, 
Smooth  back,  O  Fortune,  half  thy  frown, 
And  make  me  beautifully  brown  ! 

Dream-forger,  I  refill  thy  cup 
With  reverie's  wasteful  pittance  up, 
And  while  the  fire  burns  slow  away, 
Hiding  itself  in  ashes  grey, 
I'll  think, — As  inward  Youth  retreats, 
Compelled  to  spare  his  wasting  heats, 
When  Life's  Ash-Wednesday  comes  about, 
And  my  head's  grey  with  fires  burnt  out 
While  stays  one  spark  to  light  the  eye, 
With  the  last  flash  of  memory, 
'Twill  leap  to  welcome  C.  F.  B., 
Who  sent  my  favourite  pipe  to  me. 

/.  A'.  Lowell. 


Mounsey      o        o        o        *o        >e>        ^? 

T  T  E  is  the  oldest  frequenter  of  the  place,  the  latest 
•*•  -1     sitter-up,  well-informed,  inobtrusive,  and  that 
sturdy  old  English   character,  a   lover  of  truth  and 
justice.     I  never  knew  Mounsey  approve  of  anything 
unfair  or  illiberal.    There  is  a  candour  and  upright- 
ness about  his  mind  which  can  neither  be  wheedled 
52 


nor  brow-beat  into  unjustifiable  complaisance.  He 
looks  straight-forward  as  he  sits  with  his  glass  in  his 
hand,  turning  neither  to  the  right  nor  the  left,  and  I 
will  venture  to  say  that  he  has  never  had  a  sinister 
object  in  view  through  life.  Mrs.  Battle  (it  is  recorded 
in  her  Opinions  on  Whist)  could  not  make  up  her 
mind  to  use  the  word  "  Go ."  Mounsey  from  long 
practice  has  got  over  this  difficulty,  and  uses  it 
incessantly.  It  is  no  matter  what  adjunct  follows  in 
the  train  of  this  despised  monosyllable : — whatever 
liquid  comes  after  this  prefix  is  welcome.  Mounsey, 
without  being  the  most  communicative,  is  the  most 
conversible  man  I  know.  The  social  principle  is 
inseparable  from  his  person.  If  he  has  nothing  to 
say,  he  drinks  your  health  ;  and  when  you  cannot 
from  the  rapidity  and  carelessness  of  his  utterance 
catch  what  he  says,  you  assent  to  it  with  equal 
confidence  :  you  know  his  meaning  is  good.  His 
favourite  phrase  is,  "  We  have  all  of  us  something  of 
the  coxcomb  "  ;  and  yet  he  has  none  of  it  himself. 
Before  I  had  exchanged  half  a  dozen  sentences  with 
Mounsey,  I  found  that  he  knew  several  of  my  old 
acquaintance  (an  immediate  introduction  of  itself,  for 
the  discussing  the  characters  and  foibles  of  common 
friends  is  a  great  sweetener  and  cement  of  friendship) 
— and  had  been  intimate  with  most  of  the  wits  and 
men  about  town  for  the  last  twenty  years.  He  knew 
Tobin,  Wordsworth,  Porson,  Wilson,  Paley,  Erskine, 
and  many  others.  He  speaks  of  Paley's  pleasantry 
and  unassuming  manners,  and  describes  Person's 

53 


long  potations  and  long  quotations  formerly  at  the 
Cider-Cellar  in  a  very  lively  way.  He  has  doubts, 
however,  as  to  that  sort  of  learning.  On  my  saying 
that  I  had  never  seen  the  Greek  Professor  but  once, 
at  the  Library  of  the  London  Institution,  when  he  was 
dressed  in  an  old  rusty  black  coat,  with  cobwebs 
hanging  to  the  skirts  of  it,  and  with  a  large  patch  of 
coarse  brown  paper  covering  the  whole  length  of  his 
nose,  looking  for  all  the  world  like  a  drunken  car- 
penter, and  talking  to  one  of  the  Proprietors  with  an 
air  of  sauvity,  approaching  to  condescension,  Mounsey 
could  not  help  expressing  some  little  uneasiness  for 
the  credit  of  classical  literature.  "  I  submit,  sir, 
whether  common  sense  is  not  the  principal  thing? 
What  is  the  advantage  of  genius  and  learning  if  they 
are  of  no  use  in  the  conduct  of  life?" — Mounsey  is 
one  who  loves  the  hours  that  usher  in  the  morn,  when 
a  select  few  are  left  in  twos  and  threes  like  stars 
before  the  break  of  day,  and  when  the  discourse 
and  the  ale  are  "aye  growing  better  and  better." 

William  Hazlitt. 


Conversation        *£>        o        o        *z>        o 

\/E  pow'rs  who  rule  the  tongue,  if  such  there  are, 
•*•       And  make  colloquial  happiness  your  care, 
Preserve  me  from  the  thing  I  dread  and  hate, 
A  duel  in  the  form  of  a  debate. 

54 


The  clash  of  arguments  and  jar  of  words, 
Worse  than  the  mortal  brunt  of  rival  swords, 
Decide  no  question  with  their  tedious  length, 
For  opposition  gives  opinion  strength, 
Divert  the  champions  prodigal  of  breath, 
And  put  the  peaceably  dispos'd  to  death. 

0  thwart  me  not,  sir  Soph,  at  ev'ry  turn, 
Nor  carp  at  ev'ry  flaw  you  may  discern  ; 
Though  syllogisms  hang  not  on  my  tongue, 

1  am  not  surely  always  in  the  wrong  ; 
Tis  hard  if  all  is  false  that  I  advance, 

A  fool  must  now  and  then  be  right  by  chance. 

Not  that  all  freedom  of  dissent  I  blame  ; 

No — there  I  grant  the  privilege  I  claim. 

A  disputable  point  is  no  man's  ground ; 

Rove  where  you  please,  'tis  common  all  around. 

Discourse  may  want  an  animated — No, 

To  brush  the  surface,  and  to  make  it  flow  ; 

But  still  remember,  if  you  mean  to  please, 

To  press  your  point  with  modesty  and  ease. 

The  mark,  at  which  my  juster  aim  I  take, 

Is  contradiction  for  its  own  dear  sake. 

Set  your  opinion  at  whatever  pitch, 

Knots  and  impediments  make  something  hitch  ; 

Adopt  his  own,  'tis  equally  in  vain, 

Your  thread  of  argument  is  snapp'd  again  ; 

The  wrangler,  rather  than  accord  with  you, 

Will  judge  himself  deceiv'd,  and  prove  it  too. 

Vociferated  logic  kills  me  quite, 

A  noisy  man  is  always  in  the  right — 

55 


I  twirl  my  thumbs,  fall  back  into  my  chair, 
Fix  on  the  wainscot  a  distressful  stare, 
And,  when  I  hope  his  blunders  are  all  out, 
Reply  discreetly — To  be  sure— no  doubt! 


A  story,  in  which  native  humour  reigns, 
Is  often  useful,  always  entertains  : 
A  graver  fact,  enlisted  on  your  side, 
May  furnish  illustration,  well  applied  ; 
But  sedentary  weavers  of  long  tales 
Give  me  the  fidgets,  and  my  patience  fails. 
'Tis  the  most  asinine  employ  on  Earth, 
To  hear  them  tell  of  parentage  and  birth, 
And  echo  conversations,  dull  and  dry, 
Embellish'd  with — He  said,  and  so  said  I. 
At  ev'ry  interview  their  route  the  same, 
The  repetitions  make  attention  lame  ; 
We  bustle  up  with  unsuccessful  speed, 
And  in  the  saddest  part  cry — Droll  indeed! 
The  path  of  narrative  with  care  pursue, 
Still  making  probability  your  clew  ; 
On  all  the  vestiges  of  truth  attend, 
And  let  them  guide  you  to  a  decent  end. 
Of  all  ambitions  man  may  entertain, 
The  worst,  that  can  invade  a  sickly  brain, 
Is  that  which  angles  hourly  for  surprise, 
And  baits  its  hook  with  prodigies  and  lies. 
Credulous  infancy,  or  age  as  weak, 
Are  fittest  auditors  for  such  to  seek, 
56 


Who  to  please  others  will  themselves  disgrace, 
Yet  please  not,  but  affront  you  to  your  face. 
A  great  retailer  of  this  curious  ware 
Having  unloaded  and  made  many  stare, 
Can  this  be  true  ? — an  arch  observer  cries, 
Yes,  (rather  mov'd)  I  saw  it  with  these  eyes  : 
Sir  !  I  believe  it  on  that  ground  alone  ; 
I  could  not,  had  I  seen  it  with  my  own. 

A  tale  should  be  judicious,  clear,  succinct 
The  language  plain,  and  incidents  well  link'd  ; 
Tell  not  as  new  what  ev'ry  body  knows, 
And,  new  or  old,  still  hasten  to  a  close  ; 
There,  centring  in  a  focus  round  and  neat, 
Let  all  your  rays  of  information  meet. 
What  neither  yields  us  profit  nor  delight 
Is  like  a  nurse's  lullaby  at  night : 
Guy  Earl  of  Warwick  and  fair  Eleanore, 
Or  giant-killing  Jack,  would  please  me  more. 

W.  Cowper. 


The  Indian  Weed 


T 


HIS  Indian  weed  now  withered  quite, 
Though  green  at  noon,  cut  down  at  night, 
Shows  thy  decay ; 
All  flesh  is  hay  : 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

57 


The  pipe,  so  lily-like  and  weak, 
Does  thus  thy  mortal  state  bespeak  ; 

Thou  art  e'en  such, — 

Gone  with  a  touch  : 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco,, 

And  when  the  smoke  ascends  on  high, 
Then  thou  behold'st  the  vanity 

Of  worldly  stuff, 

Gone  with  a  puff : 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  when  the  pipe  grows  foul  within, 
Think  on  thy  soul  defiled  with  sin  : 

For  then  the  fire 

It  does  require  : 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

And  seest  the  ashes  cast  away, 
Then  to  thyself  thou  mayest  say, 

That  to  the  dust 

Return  thou  must  : 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 


The  Same  Spiritualised         o         o         o 

~\  1  7AS  this  the  plant  for  thee  cut  down  ? 
So  was  the  plant  of  great  renown, 
Which  Mercy  sends 
For  nobler  ends. 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 
58 


Doth  juice  medicinal  proceed 
From  such  a  naughty  foreign  weed? 

Then  what's  the  power 

Of  Jesse's  flower  ? 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  promise,  like  the  pipe,  inlays, 
And  by  the  mouth  of  faith  conveys 

What  virtue  flows 

From  Sharon's  rose. 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

In  vain  the  unlighted  pipe  you  blow, 
Your  pains  in  outward  means  are  so 
Till  heavenly  fire 
Your  heart  inspire. 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

The  smoke,  like  burning  incense,  towers, 
So  should  a  praying  heart  of  yours 
With  ardent  cries 
Surmount  the  skies. 
Thus  think,  and  smoke  tobacco. 

Ralph  Erskine. 


Harry   Carey's   General    Reply,  to    the   Libelling 
Gentry,  who  are  angry  at  his  Welfare        -£> 


W 


ITH  an  honest  old  friend  and  a  merry  old  song, 
And  a  flask  of  old  port,  let  me  sit  the  night 
long, 

59 


And  laugh  at  the  malice  of  those  who  repine 

That  they  must  swig  porter  while  I  can  drink  wine. 

I  envy  no  mortal  tho'  ever  so  great, 
Nor  scorn  I  a  wretch  for  his  lowly  estate  ; 
But  what  I  abhor  and  esteerrt  as  a  curse 
Is  poorness  of  Spirit,  not  poorness  in  Purse. 

Then  dare  to  be  generous,  dauntless,  and  gay, 
Let's  merrily  pass  life's  remainder  away  ; 
Upheld  by  our  friends,  \ve  our  foes  may  despise, 
For  the  more  we  are  envied,  the  higher  we  rise. 

Henry  Carey. 


The  Fire        o        ^>        o        ^>        o 

A  S  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
•**•     Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back, — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick  ; 
The  knotty  fore-stick  laid  apart, 
And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
60 


Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into  rosy  bloom. 


Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about, 
Content  to  let  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 
The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed  ; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 
What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 
Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
Could  quench  our  hearth-fire's  ruddy  glow. 

/.  C.  Whittier. 
61 


Sanctuary     o         o         o         o         o         o 

"~PIS  pleasant,  through  the  loopholes  of  retreat, 

-*•      To  peep  at  such  a  world  ;  to  see  the  stir 
Of  the  great  Babel,  and  not  feel  the  crowd  ; 
To  hear  the  roar  she  sends  through  all  her  gates 
At  a  safe  distance,  where  the  dying  sound 
Falls  a  soft  murmur  on  th'  uninjur'd  ear. 
Thus  sitting,  and  surveying  thus  at  ease 
The  globe  and  its  concerns,  I  seem  advanc'd 
To  some  secure  and  more  than  mortal  height, 
That  lib'rates  and  exempts  me  from  them  all. 
It  turns  submitted  to  my  view,  turns  round 
With  all  its  generations  :  I  behold 
The  tumult,  and  am  still.     The  sound  of  war 
Has  lost  its  terrours  ere  it  reaches  me  ; 
Grieves,  but  alarms  me  not.     I  mourn  the  pride 
And  av'rice  that  make  man  a  wolf  to  man  ; 
Hear  the  faint  echo  of  those  brazen  throats, 
By  which  he  speaks  the  language  of  his  heart, 
And  sigh,  but  never  tremble  at  the  sound. 
He  travels  and  expatiates,  as  the  bee 
From  flow'r  to  flow'r,  so  he  from  land  to  land  ; 
The  manners,  customs,  policy,  of  all 
Pay  contribution  to  the  store  he  gleans  ; 
He  sucks  intelligence  in  ev'ry  clime, 
And  spreads  the  honey  of  his  deep  research 
At  his  return — a  rich  repast  for  me. 
He  travels,  and  I  too.     I  tread  his  deck, 
Ascend  his  topmast,  through  his  peering  eyes 
62 


Discover  countries,  with  a  kindred  heart 
Suffer  his  woes,  and  share  in  his  escapes  ; 
While  fancy,  like  the  finger  of  a  clock, 
Runs  the  great  circuit,  and  is  still  at  home. 

William  Cowper. 


Travels  by  the  Fireside        *£>        *o        *&> 

HP  HE  ceaseless  rain  is  falling  fast 
-*•      And  yonder  gilded  vane, 
Immovable  for  three  days  past, 
Points  to  the  misty  main. 

It  drives  me  in  upon  myself, 
And  to  the  fireside  gleams, 

To  pleasant  books  that  crowd  my  shelf, 
And  still  more  pleasant  dreams. 

I  read  whatever  bards  have  sung 

Of  lands  beyond  the  sea, 
And  the  bright  days  when  I  was  young 

Come  thronging  back  to  me. 

I  fancy  I  can  hear  again 
The  Alpine  torrent's  roar, 

The  mule-bells  on  the  hills  of  Spain, 
The  sea  at  Elsinore. 

63 


I  see  the  convent's  gleaming  wall 

Rise  from  its  groves  of  pine, 
And  towers  of  old  cathedrals  tall, 

And  castles  by  the  Rhine. 

1  journey  on  by  park  and  spire, 

Beneath  centennial  trees, 
Through  fields  with  poppies  all  on  fire, 

And  gleams  of  distant  seas. 

I  fear  no  more  the  dust  and  heat, 

No  more  I  feel  fatigue, 
While  journeying  with  another's  feet, 

O'er  many  a  lengthening  league. 

Let  others  traverse  sea  and  land, 
And  toil  through  various  climes, 

I  turn  the  world  round  with  my  hand, 
Reading  these  poets'  rhymes. 

From  them  I  learn  whatever  lies 

Beneath  each  changing  zone, 
And  see,  when  looking  with  their  eyes, 

Better  than  with  mine  own. 

H.  W.  Longfellow 


64 


An  Ember  Picture      ^>        -&»         «o         <3» 

T  T  OVV  strange  are  the  freaks  of  memory  I 

The  lessons  of  life  we  forget, 
While  a  trifle,  a  trick  of  colour, 
In  the  wonderful  web  is  set, — 

Set  by  some  mordant  of  fancy, 
And,  spite  of  the  wear  and  tear 

Of  time  or  distance  or  trouble, 
Insists  on  its  right  to  be  there. 

A  chance  had  brought  us  together  ; 

Our  talk  was  of  matters-of-course  ; 
We  were  nothing,  one  to  the  other, 

But  a  short  half-hour's  resource. 

We  spoke  of  French  acting  and  actors, 

And  their  easy,  natural  way  ; 
Of  the  weather,  for  it  was  raining 

As  we  drove  home  from  the  play. 

We  debated  the  social  nothings 
We  bore  ourselves  so  to  discuss  ; 

The  thunderous  rumours  of  battle 
Were  silent  the  while  for  us. 

Arrived  at  her  door,  we  left  her 
With  a  drippingly  hurried  adieu, 

And  our  wheels  went  crunching  the  gravel 
Of  the  oak-darkened  avenue. 
E  65 


As  we  drove  away  through  the  shadow, 

The  candle  she  held  in  the  door 
From  rain-varnished  tree-trunk  to  tree-trunk 

Flashed  fainter,  and  flashed  no  more  ;-- 

Flashed  fainter,  then  wholly  faded 

Before  we  had  passed  the  wood  ; 
But  the  light  of  the  face  behind  it 

Went  with  me  and  stayed  for  good. 

The  vision  of  scarce  a  moment, 

And  hardly  marked  at  the  time, 
It  comes  unbidden  to  haunt  me, 

Like  a  scrap  of  ballad-rhyme. 

Had  she  beauty  ?     Well,  not  what  they  call  so  ; 

You  may  find  a  thousand  as  fair  ; 
And  yet  there's  her  face  in  my  memory, 

With  no  special  claim  to  be  there. 

As  I  sit  sometimes  in  the  twilight, 

And  call  back  to  life  in  the  coals 
Old  faces  and  hopes  and  fancies 

Long  buried,  (good  rest  to  their  souls  !) 

Her  face  shines  out  in  the  embers  ; 

I  see  her  holding  the  light, 
And  hear  the  crunch  of  the  gravel 

And  the  sweep  of  the  rain  that  night. 
66 


Tis  a  face  that  can  never  grow  older, 
That  never  can  part  with  its  gleam, 

'Tis  a  gracious  possession  for  ever, 
For  is  it  not  all  a  dream  ? 

J.  R.  Lowell. 


Fancy 


"C*  VER  let  the  Fancy  roam, 
r™*     Pleasure  never  is  at  home  : 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth, 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth  ; 
Then  let  winged  Fancy  wander 
Through  the  thought  still  spread  beyond  her 
Open  wide  the  mind's  cage-door, 
She'll  dart  forth,  and  cloudward  soar. 
O  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Summer's  joys  arc  spoilt  by  use, 
And  the  enjoying  of  the  Spring 
Fades  as  does  its  blossoming  ; 
Autumn's  red-lipp'd  fruitage  too, 
Blushing  through  the  mist  and  dew, 
Cloys  with  tasting  :  What  do  then  ? 
Sit  thee  by  the  ingle,  when 
The  sear  faggot  blazes  bright, 
Spirit  of  a  winter's  night  ; 
When  the  soundless  earth  is  muffled, 
And  the  caked  snow  is  shuffled 
67 


From  the  ploughboy's  heavy  shoon  ; 
When  the  Night  doth  meet  the  Noon 
In  a  dark  conspiracy 
To  banish  Even  from  her  sky. 
Sit  thee  there,  and  send  abroad, 
With  a  mind  self-overaw'd, 
Fancy,  high-commission'd  : — send  her  ! 
She  has  vassals  to  attend  her  : 
She  will  bring,  in  spite  of  frost, 
Beauties  that  the  earth  has  lost ; 
She  will  bring  thee,  all  together, 
All  delights  of  summer  weather  ; 
All  the  buds  and  bells  of  May, 
From  dewy  sward  or  thorny  spray  ; 
All  the  heaped  Autumn's  wealth, 
With  a  still,  mysterious  stealth  : 
She  will  mix  these  pleasures  up 
Like  three  fit  wines  in  a  cup, 
And  thou  shalt  quaff  it : — thou  shalt  hear 
Distant  harvest-carols  clear  ; 
Rustle  of  the  reaped  corn  ; 
Sweet  birds  antheming  the  morn  : 
And,  in  the  same  moment — hark  ! 
'Tis  the  early  April  lark, 
Or  the  rooks,  with  busy  caw, 
Foraging  for  sticks  and  straw. 
Thou  shalt,  at  one  glance,  behold 
The  daisy  and  the  marigold  ; 
White-plum'd  lilies,  and  the  first 
Hedge-grown  primrose  that  hath  burst ; 
68 


Shaded  hyacinth,  alway 
Sapphire  queen  of  the  mid-May  ; 
And  every  leaf,  and  every  flower 
Pearled  with  the  self-same  shower. 
Thou  shall  see  the  field-mouse  peep 
Meagre  from  its  celled  sleep  ; 
And  the  snake  all  winter-thin 
Cast  on  sunny  bank  its  skin. ; 
Freckled  nest-eggs  thou  shall  see 
Hatching  in  the  hawthorn-tree, 
When  the  hen-bird's  wing  doth  rest 
Quiet  on  her  mossy  nest ; 
Then  ihe  hurry  and  alarm 
When  the  bee-hive  casts  its  swarm  ; 
Acorns  ripe  down-pattering, 
While  the  autumn  breezes  sing. 


Oh,  sweet  Fancy  !  let  her  loose  ; 
Every  thing  is  spoilt  by  use  : 
Where's  the  cheek  that  doth  not  fade, 
Too  much  gaz'd  at  ?    \Vhere's  the  maid 
Whose  lip  mature  is  ever  new? 
Where's  the  eye,  however  blue, 
Doth  not  weary  ?     Where's  the  face 
One  would  meet  in  every  place  ? 
Where's  the  voice,  however  soft, 
One  would  hear  so  very  oft  ? 
At  a  touch  sweet  Pleasure  melteth 
Like  to  bubbles  when  rain  pelteth. 
69 


Let,  then,  winged  Fancy  find 

Thee  a  mistress  to  thy  mind  : 

Dulcet-eyed  as  Ceres'  daughter, 

Ere  the  God  of  Torment  taught  her 

How  to  frown  and  how  to  chide  ; 

With  a  waist  and  with  a  side 

White  as  Hebe's,  when  her  zone 

Slipt  its  golden  clasp,  and  down 

Fell  her  kirtle  to  her  feet, 

While  she  held  the  goblet  sweet, 

And  Jove  grew  languid. — Break  the  mesh 

Of  the  Fancy's  silken  leash  ; 

Quickly  break  her  prison-string, 

And  such  joys  as  these  she'll  bring. — 

Let  the  winged  Fancy  roam, 

Pleasure  never  is  at  home. 

John  Keats. 


The  Children's  Hour 


T)  ETWEEN  the  dark  and  the  daylight, 
•*-'     When  the  night  is  beginning  to  lower, 
Comes  a  pause  in  the  day's  occupations 
That  is  known  as  the  Children's  Hour. 


I  hear  in  the  chamber  above  me 

The  patter  of  little  feet, 
The  sound  of  a  door  that  is  opened 

And  voices  soft  and  sweet. 

70 


From  my  study  I  see  in  the  lamplight, 
Descending  the  broad  hall  stair, 

Grave  Alice  and  laughing  Allegra, 
And  Edith  with  golden  hair. 

A  whisper  and  then  a  silence  ; 

Yet  I  know  by  their  merry  eyes 
They  are  plotting  and  planning  together 

To  take  me  by  surprise. 

A  sudden  rush  from  the  stairway, 
A  sudden  raid  from  the  hall ! 

By  three  doors  left  unguarded 
They  enter  my  castle  wall ! 

They  climb  up  into  my  turret 

O'er  the  arms  and  back  of  my  chair  : 

If  I  try  to  escape,  they  surround  me  ; 
They  seem  to  be  everywhere. 

They  almost  devour  me  with  kisses, 
Their  arms  about  me  entwine, 

Till  I  think  of  the  Bishop  of  Bingen 
In  his  Mouse  Tower  on  the  Rhine  ! 

Do  you  think,  O  blue-eyed  banditti, 
Because  you  have  scaled  the  wall, 

Such  an  old  moustache  as  I  am 
Is  not  a  match  for  you  all ! 
71 


I  have  you  fast  in  my  fortress, 

And  will  not  let  you  depart, 
But  put  you  down  into  the  dungeon 

In  the  round-tower  of  my  heart. 

And  there  will  I  keep  you  for  ever, 

Yes,  for  ever  and  a  day, 
Till  the  walls  shall  crumble  to  ruin, 

And  moulder  in  dust  away  ! 

H.  W.  Longfellow, 


MORE  FRIENDS 


Once  on  a  time  I  used  to  dream 

Strange  spirits  moved  about  my  way, 
And  I  might  catch  a  vagrant  gleam, 

A  glint  of  pixy  or  of  fay ; 
Their  lives  were  mingled  with  my  own, 

So  far  they  roamed,  so  near  they  drew ; 
And  when  I  from  a  child  had  grown, 

I  woke — and  found  my  dream  was  true. 

For  one  is  clad  in  coat  of  fur, 

And  one  is  decked  with  feathers  gay  ; 
Another,  wiser,  will  prefer 

A  sober  suit  of  Quaker  grey  : 
This  one's  your  servant  from  his  birth, 

And  that  a  Princess  you  must  please, 
And  this  one  loves  to  wake  your  mirth, 

And  that  one  likes  to  share  your  ease. 

O  gracious  creatures,  tiny  souls ! 

You  seem  so  near,  so  far  away, 
Yet  while  the  cloudland  round  us  rolls, 

We  love  you  better  every  day. 

Margaret  Benson. 


We  had  much  billiards  ;  music,  too,  and  company  ;  I  could 
take  no  part  in  the  two  first ;  I  love  most  of  the  last  that  I 
know,  and  as  there  were  two  or  three  children,  and  two  or 
three-and-forty  dogs,  I  could  not  want  amusement,  for  I 
generally  prefer  both  to  what  the  common  people  call 
Christians. 

Horace  Walpole  (to  Lady  Ossory), 


Upon  his  Spaniell  Trade         e>         o         -o 

TVJ  OW  thou  art  dead,  no  eye  shall  ever  see, 

For  shape  and  service,  Spaniell  like  to  thee. 
This  shall  my  love  doe,  give  thy  sad  death  one 
Teare,  that  deserves  of  me  a  million. 

R.  Herrick. 


My  Terrier         *£>         ~o         ~<o         «£>         o 

\    SCOTCH  patrician,  sandy-haired, 
*          Whose  forefathers  would  whine  and  gambol 
Round  some  forgotten  lowland  laird, 

Companions  of  his  morning  ramble  ; 
He  wakes  a  Northern  memory  still 

Of  salmon  in  the  river  leaping, 
Of  grouse  that  call  upon  the  hill, 

And  sunlight  on  the  larch-wood  sleeping. 

Alas  !  his  lot  is  cast  in  lines 

That  more  prosaic  patterns  follow, 
Far  from  the  fragrance  of  the  pines, 

From  heathered  slope  and  misty  hollow  ; 

75 


To  all  among  the  hurrying  wheels 

Where  crowds  are  thick  and  streets  are  gritty 
A  close  attendant  at  my  heels, 

He  treads  the  pavement  of  the  City. 

Now  curled  upon  the  rug  he  lies, 

Yet,  as  I  write,  his  head  he  raises 
To  gaze  at  me  with  anxious  eyes, 

As  though  to  bid  me  sing  his  praises  ; 
Then,  dozing  off  again,  renews 

The  ecstasy  of  ancient  habits, 
And,  whining  in  his  dreams,  pursues 

A  multitude  of  phantom  rabbits. 

The  pleasures  of  his  daily  round 

Might,  were  his  nature  less  convivial. 
In  process  of  the  years  be  found 

Somewhat  monotonous  and  trivial ; 
Each  night  the  handiwork  of  Spratt 

He  hails  with  healthy  acclamation, 
Each  day  he  greets  my  stick  and  hat 

With  furious  barks  of  approbation. 

One  would  suppose  a  walk  with  me 

Scarce  merited  such  boisterous  greeting. 
Yet  blissful  prospects  he  can  see 

Of  many  a  courteous  wayside  meeting 
With  other  dogs,  who  never  fail 

To  rouse  an  interest  none  may  measure 
And  set  the  apex  of  his  tail 

A-trembling  with  mysterious  pleasure. 
76 


Though  you  might  think  that  each  surmised 

That  he  had  many  a  canine  brother, 
They  all  seem  curiously  surprised 

Day  after  day  to  see  each  other  ; 
In  that  pricked  ear  and  eager  eye 

Astonishment  may  be  detected, 
And  those  spasmodic  leaps  imply 

A  flavour  of  the  unexpected. 

I  wish  my  pen  for  him  could  claim 

A  character  for  great  astuteness, 
Or  hopes  of  an  enduring  fame 

Based  on  phenomenal  acuteness  ; 
But  since  I  hope  that  I  possess 

A  reputation  for  veracity, 
I  have  not  in  the  public  press 

Told  anecdotes  of  his  sagacity. 

Of  no  attainments  he  can  boast — 

I  venture  the  confession  sadly — 
Though  round  the  table  he  will  coast 

And  beg  assiduously  but  badly  ; 
Yet  his  devotion  makes  amends, 

And  when  my  nerves  are  strung  and  restive. 
The  best  of  faithful  silent  friends, 

I  find  him  pleasantly  suggestive. 

For  I  am  sure  that  here  is  one 
Who,  whatsoe'er  my  fault  and  failing, 

Whatever  I  have  said  or  done 
Will  spare  me  rough  abuse  and  railing  ; 
77 


When  criticism  waxes  cold, 

In  hours  of  bitter  introspection, 
Still  in  that  doggish  heart  I  hold 

A  changeless  standard  of  perfection. 

He  reads  me  morals,  too,  who  find 

So  much  to  agitate  and  vex  me, 
And  to  the  riddles  of  mankind 

So  many  answers  that  perplex  me  ; 
He  who  his  little  life  surveys 

With  spirits  buoyant  and  unflagging, 
And  needs  such  trifling  joys  to  raise 

His  tail  to  a  contented  wagging. 

Alfred  Cochrane. 


The  Dog      *e>         <2>         •£>         -£>         ~£>         so 

'"PHE  faults  of  the  dog  are  many.  He  is  vainer 
•*•  than  man,  singularly  greedy  of  notice,  singularly 
intolerant  of  ridicule,  suspicious  like  the  deaf,  jealous 
to  the  degree  of  frenzy,  and  radically  devoid  of  truth. 
The  day  of  an  intelligent  small  dog  is  passed  in  the 
manufacture  and  the  laborious  communication  of 
falsehood  ;  he  lies  with  his  tail,  he  lies  with  his  eye, 
he  lies  with  his  protesting  paw  ;  and  when  he  rattles 
his  dish  or  scratches  at  the  door,  his  purpose  is  other 
than  appears.  But  he  has  some  apology  to  offer  for 
the  vice.  Many  of  the  signs  which  form  his  dialect 
have  come  to  bear  an  arbitrary  meaning,  clearly 
73 


understood  both  by  his  master  and  himself;  yet 
when  a  new  want  arises  he  must  either  invent  a  new 
vehicle  of  meaning,  or  wrest  an  old  one  to  a  different 
purpose  ;  and  this  necessity  frequently  recurring  must 
tend  to  lessen  his  idea  of  the  sanctity  of  symbols. 
Meanwhile  the  dog  is  clear  in  his  own  conscience, 
and  draws,  with  a  human  nicety,  the  distinction 
between  formal  and  essential  truth.  Of  his  punning 
perversions,  his  legitimate  dexterity  with  symbols,  he 
is  even  vain  ;  but  when  he  has  told  and  been  detected 
in  a  lie,  there  is  not  a  hair  upon  his  body  but  confesses 
guilt.  To  a  dog  of  gentlemanly  feeling,  theft  and 
falsehood  are  disgraceful  vices.  The  canine,  like  the 
human,  gentleman  demands  in  his  misdemeanours 
Montaigne's  "je  ne  sais  quoi  de  ge'ne'reux?  He  is 
never  more  than  half  ashamed  of  having  barked  or 
bitten  ;  and  for  those  faults  into  which  he  has  been 
led  by  the  desire  to  shine  before  a  lady  of  his  race, 
he  retains,  even  under  physical  correction,  a  share 
of  pride.  But  to  be  caught  lying,  if  he  understands 
it,  instantly  uncurls  his  fleece. 

R.  L.  Stevenson. 


My  Last  Terrier         ~t>         «•>         o 

T  MOURN  "  Patroclus,"  whilst  I  praise 
•*•     Young  "  Peter  "  sleek  before  the  fire, 
A  proper  dog,  whose  decent  ways 
Renew  the  virtues  of  his  sire  ; 

79 


"  Patroclus  "  rests  in  grassy  tomb, 
And  "  Peter  "  grows  into  his  room. 

For  tho',  when  Time  or  Fates  consign 
The  terrier  to  his  latest  earth, 

Vowing  no  wastrel  of  the  line 

Shall  dim  the  memory  of  his  worth, 

I  meditate  the  silkier  breeds, 

Yet  still  an  Amurath  succeeds  : 


Succeeds  to  bind  the  heart  again 
To  watchful  eye  and  strenuous  paw, 

To  tail  that  gratulates  amain 
Or  deprecates  offended  Law  ; 

To  bind,  and  break,  when  failing  eye 

And  palsied  paw  must  say  good-bye. 

Ah,  had  the  dog's  appointed  day 

But  tallied  with  his  master's  span, 
Nor  one  swift  decade  turned  to  grey 

The  busy  muzzle's  black  and  tan, 
To  reprobate  in  idle  men 
Their  threescore  empty  years  and  ten  ! 

Sure,  somewhere  o'er  the  Stygian  strait 
"  Panurge  "  and  "  Bito,"  "  Tramp  "  and  "  Mike, 

In  couchant  conclave  watch  the  gate, 
Till  comes  the  last  successive  tyke, 
80 


Acknowledged  with  the  countersign  : 
"  Your  master  was  a  friend  of  mine  ^ 

In  dreams  I  see  them  spring  to  greet, 
With  rapture  more  than  tail  can  tell, 

Their  master  of  the  silent  feet 
Who  whistles  o'er  the  asphodel, 

And  thro'  the  dim  Elysian  bounds 

Leads  all  his  cry  of  little  hounds. 

John  Halsham. 


On  the  Collar  of  Mrs.  Dingley's  Lap-Uog        o 

T)RAY  steal  me  not,  I'm  Mrs.  Dingley's, 
•*-       Whose  Heart  in  this  four-footed  Thing  lies. 

Jonathan  Swift. 


Islet  the  Dachs       o        o        o        o        o 

/~\UR  Islet  out  of  Helgoland,  dismissed 
^-^      From  his  quaint  tenement,  quits  hates  and  loves. 
There  lived  with  us  a  wagging  humorist 
In  that  hound's  arch  dwarf-legged  on  boxing-gloves. 

George  Meredith. 


81 


Geist's  Grave         -o        *o         o         o         o 

TTOUR  years  ! — and  didst  thou  stay  above 

The  ground,  which  hides  thee  now,  but  four 
And  all  that  life,  and  all  that  love, 
Were  crowded,  Geist  !  into  no  more? 

Only  four  years  those  winning  ways, 
Which  make  me  for  thy  presence  yearn, 
Call'd  us  to  pet  thee  or  to  praise, 
Dear  little  friend  !  at  every  turn  ? 

That  loving  heart,  that  patient  soul, 
Had  they  indeed  no  longer  span, 
To  run  their  course,  and  reach  their  goal 
And  read  their  homily  to  man  ? 

That  liquid,  melancholy  eye, 
From  whose  pathetic,  soul-fed  springs 
Seem'd  surging  the  Virgilian  cry,1 
The  sense  of  tears  in  mortal  things — 

That  steadfast,  mournful  strain,  consoled 

By  spirits  gloriously  gay, 

And  temper  of  heroic  mould — 

What,  was  four  years  their  whole  short  day  ? 

1  Sunt  lacrimae  rerum. 
82 


Yes,  only  four  ! — and  not  the  course 
Of  all  the  centuries  yet  to  come, 
And  not  the  infinite  resource 
Of  Nature,  with  her  countless  sum 

Of  figures,  with  her  fulness  vast 
Of  new  creation  evermore, 
Can  ever  quite  repeat  the  past, 
Or  just  thy  little  self  restore. 

Stern  law  of  every  mortal  lot ! 

Which  man,  proud  man,  finds  hard  to  bear 

And  builds  himself  I  know  not  what 

Of  second  life  I  know  not  where. 

But  thou,  when  struck  thine  hour  to  go, 
On  us,  who  stood  despondent  by, 
A  meek  last  glance  of  love  didst  throw, 
And  humbly  lay  thee  down  to  die. 

Yet  would  we  keep  thee  in  our  heart — 
Would  fix  our  favourite  on  the  scene, 
Nor  let  thee  utterly  depart 
And  be  as  if  thou  ne'er  hadst  been. 

And  so  there  rise  these  lines  of  verse 

On  lips  that  rarely  form  them  now  ; 

While  to  each  other  we  rehearse  : 

Such  ways,  such  arts,  such  looks  hadst  thou  .' 

83 


We  stroke  thy  broad  brown  paws  again, 
We  bid  thee  to  thy  vacant  chair, 
We  greet  thee  by  the  window-pane, 
We  hear  thy  scuffle  on  the  stair. 

We  see  the  flaps  of  thy  large  ears 
Quick  raised  to  ask  which  way  we  go  ; 
Crossing  the  frozen  lake,  appears 
Thy  small  black  figure  on  the  snow  ! 

Nor  to  us  only  art  thou  dear, 
Who  mourn  thee  in  thine  English  home  ; 
Thou  hast  thine  absent  master's  tear, 
Dropt  by  the  far  Australian  foam. 

Thy  memory  lasts  both  here  and  there, 
And  thou  shalt  live  as  long  as  we. 
And  after  that — thou  dost  not  care  ! 
In  us  was  all  the  world  to  thee. 

Yet,  fondly  zealous  for  thy  fame, 
Even  to  a  date  beyond  our  own, 
We  strive  to  carry  down  thy  name 
By  mounded  turf  and  graven  stone. 

We  lay  thee,  close  within  our  reach, 
Here,  where  the  grass  is  smooth  and  warm, 
Between  the  holly  and  the  beech, 
Where  oft  we  watch'd  thy  couchant  form, 
84 


Asleep,  yet  lending  half  an  ear 
To  travellers  on  the  Portsmouth  road  ; — 
There  build  we  thee,  O  guardian  dear, 
Mark'd  with  a  stone,  thy  last  abode  ! 

Then  some,  who  through  this  garden  pass, 
When  \ve  too,  like  thyself,  are  clay, 
Shall  see  thy  grave  upon  the  grass, 
And  stop  before  the  stone,  and  say  : 

People  who  lived  here  long  ago 

Did  by  this  stone,  it  seems,  intend 

To  name  for  future  times  to  know 

The  due hs -hound  Geist,  their  little  friend. 

Matthew  Arnold. 


To  my  Cat         o        ^>        *£>        o        o 

HALF  loving-kindliness,  and  half-disdain, 
Thou  comest  to  my  call  serenely  suave, 
With  humming  speech  and  gracious  gestures 

grave, 

In  salutation  courtly  and  urbane  : 
Yet  must  I  humble  me  thy  grace  to  gain — 
For  wiles  may  win  thee,  but  no  arts  enslave, 
And  nowhere  gladly  thou  abidest  save 
Where  naught  disturbs  the  concord  of  thy  reign. 

85 


Sphinx  of  my  quiet  hearth  !  who  deignst  to  dwell, 
Friend  of  my  toil,  companion  of  mine  ease, 
Thine  is  the  lore  of  Ra  and  Rameses  ; 

That  men  forget  dost  thou  remember  well, 
Beholden  still  in  blinking  reveries, 

With  sombre  sea-green  gaze  inscrutable. 

Graham  R.  Tomson, 


To  a  Cat     o        o        o        o 

I 

STATELY,  kindly,  lordly  friend, 
Condescend 

Here  to  sit  by  me,  and  turn 
Glorious  eyes  that  smile  and  burn, 
Golden  eyes,  love's  lustrous  meed, 
On  the  golden  page  I  read. 

All  your  wondrous  wealth  of  hair, 

Dark  and  fair, 

Silken-shaggy,  soft  and  bright 
As  the  clouds  and  beams  of  night, 
Pays  my  reverent  hand's  caress 
Back  with  friendlier  gentleness. 

Dogs  may  fawn  on  all  and  some 

As  they  come ; 
You,  a  friend  of  loftier  mind, 
Answer  friends  alone  in  kind. 
86 


Just  your  foot  upon  my  hand 
Softly  bids  it  understand. 

Morning  round  this  silent  sweet 

Garden-seat 

Sheds  its  wealth  of  gathering  light, 
Thrills  the  gradual  clouds  with  might 
Changes  woodland,  orchard,  heath, 
Lawn  and  garden  there  beneath. 

Fair  and  dim  they  gleamed  below  : 

Now  they  glow 

Deep  as  even  your  sun-bright  eyes, 
Fair  as  even  the  wakening  skies. 
Can  it  not  or  can  it  be 
Now  that  you  give  thanks  to  see? 

May  you  not  rejoice  as  I, 

Seeing  the  sky 

Change  to  heaven  revealed,  and  bid 
Earth  reveal  the  heaven  it  hid 
All  night  long  from  stars  and  moon; 
Now  the  sun  sets  all  in  tune  ? 

What  within  you  wakes  with  day, 

Who  can  say  ? 
All  too  little  may  we  tell, 
Friends  who  like  each  other  well, 
What  might  haply,  if  we  might 
Bid  us  read  our  lives  aright. 

87 


II 

Wild  on  woodland  ways  your  sires 

Flashed  like  fires  ; 
Fair  as  flame  and  fierce  as  fleet, 
As  with  wings  on  wingless  feet 
Shone  and  sprang  your  mother,  free, 
Bright  and  brave  as  wind  or  sea. 

Free  and  proud  and  glad  as  they, 

Here  to-day 

Rests  or  roams  their  radiant  child, 
Vanquished  not,  but  reconciled, 
Free  from  curb  of  aught  above 
Save  the  lovely  curb  of  love. 

Love  through  dreams  of  souls  divine 

Fain  would  shine 

Round  a  dawn  whose  light  and  song 
Then  should  right  our  mutual  wrong — 
Speak,  and  seal  the  love-lit  law 
Sweet  Assisi's  seer  foresaw. 

Dreams  were  theirs  ;  yet  haply  may 

Dawn  a  day 

When  such  friends  and  fellows  born, 
Seeing  our  earth  as  fair  at  morn, 
May  for  wiser  love's  sake  see 
More  of  heaven's  deep  heart  than  we. 

Algernon  Charles  Swinburne. 
88 


THE  TABLE  AND  THE  BINN 


When  you  rise  from  your  Dinner  as  light  as  before, 
Tis  a  sign  you  have  eat  just  enough  and  no  more. 

Thomas  Gray. 


I  am  no  Quaker  at  my  food.  I  confess  I  am  not  indifferent 
to  the  kinds  of  it.  Those  unctuous  morsels  of  deer's  flesh  were 
not  made  to  be  received  with  dispassionate  services.  I  hate 
a  man  who  swallows  it,  affecting  not  to  know  what  he  is  eating. 
I  suspect  his  taste  in  higher  matters.  I  shrink  instinctively  from 
one  who  professes  to  like  minced  veal.  There  is  a  physiog- 
nomical character  in  the  tastes  for  food.  C holds  that  a 

man  cannot  have  a  pure  mind  who  refuses  apple-dumplings. 
I  am  not  certain  but  he  is  right. 

Charles  Lamb. 


Dr.  Middleton  misdoubted  the  future  as  well  as  the  past  of 
the  man  who  did  not,  in  becoming  gravity,  exult  to  dine. 
That  man  he  deemed  unfit  for  this  world  and  the  next. 

George  Meredith. 


Ben  Invites  a  Friend  to  Supper     o        ^>        *& 

r  I  ^O-NIGHT,  grave  sir,  both  my  poor  house  and  I 

Do  equally  desire  your  company  : 
Not  that  we  think  us  worthy  such  a  guest, 
But  that  your  worth  will  dignify  our  feast, 
With  those  that  come  ;  whose  grace  may  make  that 

seem 

Something,  which  else  would  hope  for  no  esteem. 
It  is  the  fair  acceptance,  sir,  creates 
The  entertainment  perfect,  not  the  cates. 
Yet  shall  you  have,  to  rectify  your  palate, 
An  olive,  capers,  or  some  better  sallet 
Ushering  the  mutton  :  with  a  short-legg'd  hen, 
If  we  can  get  her  full  of  eggs,  and  then, 
Limons,  and  wine  for  sauce  :  to  these,  a  coney 
Is  not  to  be  despair'd  of  for  our  money  ; 
And    though    fowl    now    be    scarce,    yet    there    are 

clerks, 

The  sky  not  falling,  think  we  may  have  larks. 
I'll  tell  you  of  more,  and  lie,  so  you  will  come  : 
Of  partridge,  pheasant,  woodcock,  of  which  some 
May  yet  be  there  ;  and  godwit  if  we  can  ; 
Knat,  rail,  and  ruff  too.     Howsoe'er,  my  man 

9' 


Shall  read  a  piece  of  Virgil,  Tacitus, 

Livy,  or  of  some  better  book  to  us, 

Of  which  we'll  speak  our  minds,  amidst  our  meat ; 

And  I'll  profess  no  verses  to  repeat  • 

To  this  if  aught  appear,  which  I  not  know  of, 

That  will  the  pastry,  not  my  paper,  show  of, 

Digestive  cheese,  and  fruit  there  sure  will  be  ; 

But  that  which  most  doth  take  my  muse  and  me, 

Is  a  pure  cup  of  rich  Canary  wine, 

Which  is  the  Mermaid's  now,  but  shall  be  mine  : 

Of  which  had  Horace  or  Anacreon  tasted, 

Their  lives,  as  do  their  lines,  till  now  had  lasted. 

Tobacco,  nectar,  or  the  Thespian  spring, 

Are  all  but  Luther's  beer,  to  this  I  sing. 

Of  this  we  will  sup  free,  but  moderately, 

And  we  will  have  no  Pooly,  or  Parrot  by  ; 

Nor  shall  our  cups  make  any  guilty  men  : 

But  at  our  parting,  we  will  be,  as  when 

We  innocently  met.     No  simple  word, 

That  shall  be  utter'd  at  our  mirthful  board, 

Shall  make  us  sad  next  morning  ;  or  affright 

The  liberty,  that  we'll  enjoy  to-night. 

Ben  Jonson. 

Ad  Ministram         o        o        ,/>        o        <. 

P\EAR  Lucy,  you  know  what  my  wish  is,— 

I  hate  all  your  Frenchified  fuss  ; 
Your  silly  entrees  and  made  dishes 
Were  never  intended  for  us. 
92 


No  footman  in  lace  and  in  ruffles 
Need  dangle  behind  my  arm-chair  ; 

And  never  mind  seeking  for  truffles, 
Although  they  be  ever  so  rare. 

But  a  plain  leg  of  mutton,  my  Lucy, 

I  prithee  get  ready  at  three  : 
Have  it  smoking,  and  tender  and  juicy, 

And  what  better  meat  can  there  be  ? 
And  when  it  has  feasted  the  master, 

'Twill  amply  suffice  for  the  maid  ; 
Meanwhile  I  will  smoke  my  canaster, 

And  tipple  my  ale  in  the  shade. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


Roast  Pig     e>         o         o         o         o         o 

T  T  must  be  agreed,  that  if  a  worthy  pretext  for  so 
dangerous  an  experiment  as  setting  houses  on 
fire  (especially  in  these  days)  could  be  assigned  in 
favour  of  any  culinary  object,  that  pretext  and  excuse 
might  be  found  in  ROAST  PIG. 

Of  all  the  delicacies  in  the  whole  mundus  edibilis, 
I  will  maintain  it  to  be  the  most  delicate— -princeps 
obsoniorum. 

I  speak  not  of  your  grown  porkers — things  between 
pig  and  pork— those  hobbydehoys — but  a  young  and 
tender  suckling — under  a  moon  old — guiltless  as  yet 

93 


of  the  sty  —  with  no  original  speck  of  the  amor 
immunditia:,  the  hereditary  failing  of  the  first  parent, 
yet  manifest — his  voice  as  yet  not  broken,  but  some- 
thing between  a  childish  treble  and  a  grumble— the 
mild  forerunner,  or  prceludium,  of  a  grunt. 

He  must  be  roasted.  I  am  not  ignorant  that  our 
ancestors  ate  them  seethed,  or  boiled — but  what  a 
sacrifice  of  the  exterior  tegument  ! 

There  is  no  flavour  comparable,  I  will  contend,  to 
that  of  the  crisp,  tawny,  well  -  watched,  not  over- 
roasted, crackling,  as  it  is  well  called — the  very  teeth 
are  invited  to  their  share  of  the  pleasure  at  this 
banquet  in  overcoming  the  coy,  brittle  resistance — 
with  the  adhesive  oleaginous — O  call  it  not  fat — but 
an  indefinable  sweetness  growing  up  to  it — the  tender 
blossoming  of  fat — fat  cropped  in  the  bud — taken  in 
the  shoot—in  the  first  innocence — the  cream  and 
quintessence  of  the  child-pig's  yet  pure  food — the 
lean,  no  lean,  but  a  kind  of  animal  manna — or,  rather, 
fat  and  lean  (if  it  must  be  so)  so  blended  and  ru  ning 
into  each  other,  that  both  together  make  but  one 
ambrosian  result,  or  common  substance. 

Behold  him,  while  he  is  doing— it  seemeth  rather  a 
refreshing  warmth,  than  a  scorching  heat,  that  he  is 
so  passive  to.  How  equably  he  twirleth  round  the 
string ! — Now  he  is  just  done.  To  see  the  extreme 
sensibility  of  that  tender  age,  he  hath  wept  out  his 
pretty  eyes — radiant  jellies— shooting  stars— 

See  him  in  the  dish,  his  second  cradle,  how  meek 
he  lieth  ! — wouldst  thou  have  had  this  innocent  grow 

94 


up  to  the  grossness  and  indocility  which  too  often 
accompany  maturer  swinehood  ?  Ten  to  one  he  would 
have  proved  a  glutton,  a  sloven,  an  obstinate,  dis- 
agreeable animal — wallowing  in  all  manner  of  filthy 
conversation — from  these  sins  he  is  happily  snatched 
away — 

Ere  sin  could  blight,  or  sorrow  fade, 
Death  came  with  timely  care — 

his  memory  is  odoriferous — no  clown  curseth,  while 
his  stomach  half  rejecteth,  the  rank  bacon — no  coal- 
heaver  bolteth  him  in  reeking  sausages — he  hath  a 
fair  sepulchre  in  the  grateful  stomach  of  the  judicious 
epicure — and  for  such  a  tomb  might  be  content  to 
die. 

Charles  Lamb. 


A  Salad       ^>        -&•        o        *>        o        o 

nnO  make  this  condiment,  your  poet  begs 
•••      The  pounded  yellow  of  two  hard-boil'd  eggs  ; 
Two  boil'd  potatoes,  pass'd  through  kitchen  sieve, 
Smoothness  and  softness  to  the  salad  give  ; 
Let  onion  atoms  lurk  within  the  bowl, 
And,  half-suspected,  animate  the  whole. 
Of  mordant  mustard  add  a  single  spoon, 
Distrust  the  condiment  that  bites  so  soon  ; 
But  deem  it  not,  thou  man  of  herbs,  a  fault, 
To  add  a  double  quantity  of  salt ; 

95 


Four  times  the  spoon  with  oil  from  Lucca  drown, 

And  twice  with  vinegar  procured  from  town  ; 

And,  lastly,  o'er  the  flavoured  compound  toss 

A  magic  soupgon  of  anchovy  sauce. 

Oh,  green  and  glorious  !     Oh,  herbaceous  treat  ! 

Twould  tempt  the  dying  anchorite  to  eat : 

Back  to  the  world  he'd  turn  his  fleeting  soul, 

And  plunge  his  fingers  in  the  salad-bowl  ! 

Serenely  full,  the  epicure  would  say, 

Fate  cannot  harm  me,  I  have  dined  to-day. 

Sydney  Smith. 


Fish 


IV  /T  UCH  do  I  love,  at  civic  treat, 
•*•  *  *-     The  monsters  of  the  deep  to  eat  ; 
To  see  the  rosy  salmon  lying, 
By  smelts  encircled,  born  for  frying  ; 
And  from  the  china  boat  to  pour, 
On  flaky  cod,  the  flavour'd  shower. 
Thee,  above  all,  I  much  regard, 
Flatter  than  Longman's  flattest  bard, 
Much  honour'd  turbot  !  —  sore  I  grieve 
Thee  and  thy  dainty  friends  to  leave. 

Sydney  Smith. 


96 


The  Ballad  of  Bouillabaisse        •&•        ^>        o 

A    STREET  there  is  in  Paris  famous, 
^  *•     For  which  no  rhyme  our  language  yields, 
Rue  Neuve  des  Petits  Champs  its  name  is— 

The  New  Street  of  the  Little  Fields. 
And  here's  an  inn,  not  rich  and  splendid, 

But  still  in  comfortable  case  ; 
The  which  in  youth  I  oft  attended, 

To  eat  a  bowl  of  Bouillabaisse. 


This  Bouillabaisse  a  noble  dish  is — 

A  sort  of  soup  or  broth,  or  brew, 
Or  hotchpotch  of  all  sorts  of  fishes, 

That  Greenwich  never  could  outdo  ; 
Green  herbs,  red  peppers,  mussels,  saffron, 

Soles,  onions,  garlic,  roach,  and  dace  : 
All  these  you  eat  at  TERRA'S  tavern, 

In  that  one  dish  of  Bouillabaisse. 


Indeed,  a  rich  and  savoury  stew  'tis  ; 

And  true  philosophers,  methinks, 
Who  love  all  sorts  of  natural  beauties, 

Should  love  good  victuals  and  good  drinks. 
And  Cordelier  or  Benedictine 

Might  gladly,  sure,  his  lot  embrace, 
Nor  find  a  fast-day  too  afflicting, 

Which  served  him  up  a  Bouillabaisse. 

G  97 


I  wonder  if  the  house  still  there  is? 

Yes,  here  the  lamp  is,  as  before  ; 
The  smiling  red-cheeked  tcaillere  is 

Still  opening  oysters  at  the  door. 
Is  TERR£  still  alive  and  able  ? 

I  recollect  his  droll  grimace  : 
He'd  come  and  smile  before  your  table, 

And  hope  you  liked  your  Bouillabaisse. 

We  enter — nothing's  changed  or  older. 

"  How's  Monsieur  TERR£,  waiter,  pray  ? 
The  waiter  stares,  and  shrugs  his  shoulder— 

"  Monsieur  is  dead  this  many  a  day." 
"  It  is  the  lot  of  saint  and  sinner, 

So  honest  TERRE'S  run  his  race." 
"What  will  Monsieur  require  for  dinner?" 

"  Say,  do  you  still  cook  Bouillabaisse  ? " 

"  Oh,  oui,  Monsieur,"  's  the  waiter's  answer  ; 

"  Quel  vin  Monsieur  desire-t-il  ?  " 
"Tell  me  a  good  one."— "That  I  can,  Sir  : 

The  Chambertin  with  yellow  seal." 
"  So  TERRE'S  gone,"  I  say,  and  sink  in 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  place  ; 
"  He's  done  with  feasting  and  with  drinking, 

With  Burgundy  and  Bouillabaisse." 

My  old  accustom'd  corner  here  is, 

The  table  still  is  in  the  nook ; 
Ah  !  vanish'd  many  a  busy  year  is 

This  well-known  chair  since  last  I  took. 
98 


When  first  I  saw  ye,  cart  luoghi, 
I'd  scarce  a  beard  upon  my  face, 

And  now  a  grizzled,  grim  old  fogy, 
I  sit  and  wait  for  Bouillabaisse. 


Where  are  you,  old  companions  trusty 

Of  early  days  here  met  to  dine  ? 
Come,  waiter  !  quick,  a  flagon  crusty — 

I'll  pledge  them  in  the  good  old  wine. 
The  kind  old  voices  and  old  faces 

My  memory  can  quick  retrace  ; 
Around  the  board  they  take  their  places, 

And  share  the  wine  and  Bouillabaisse. 


There's  JACK  has  made  a  wondrous  marriage  : 

There's  laughing  TOM  is  laughing  yet ; 
There's  brave  AUGUSTUS  drives  his  carriage  ; 

There's  poor  old  FRED  in  the  Gazette; 
On  JAMES'S  head  the  grass  is  growing  : 

Good  Lord  !  the  world  has  wagged  apace 
Since  here  we  set  the  Claret  flowing, 

And  drank,  and  ate  the  Bouillabaisse. 


Ah  me  !  how  quick  the  days  are  flitting  ! 

I  mind  me  of  a  time  that's  gone, 
When  here  I'd  sit,  as  now  I'm  sitting, 

In  this  same  place — hut  not  alone. 

99 


A  fair  young  form  was  nestled  near  me, 
A  dear,  dear  face  looked  fondly  up, 

And  sweetly  spoke  and  smiled  to  cheer  me 
— There's  no  one  now  to  share  my  cup. 

I  drink  it  as  the  Fates  ordain  it. 

Come,  fill  it,  and  have  done  with  rhymes : 
Fill  up  the  lonely  glass,  and  drain  it 

In  memory  of  dear  old  times. 
Welcome  the  wine,  whate'er  the  seal  is  ; 

And  sit  you  down  and  say  your  grace 
With  thankful  heart,  whate'er  the  meal  is. 

— Here  comes  the  smoking  Bouillabaisse  ! 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


Old  Veuve  o        o         •*£*        •£>         o         o 

'""P'HEY  were  known  at  the  house  of  the  turtle  and 
••-  the  attractive  Old  Veuve  :  a  champagne  of  a 
sobered  sweetness,  of  a  great  year,  a  great  age,  count- 
ing up  to  the  extremer  maturity  attained  by  wines  of 
stilly  depths  ;  and  their  worthy  comrade,  despite  the 
wanton  sparkles,  for  the  promoting  of  the  state  of 
reverential  wonderment  in  rapture,  which  an  ancient 
wine  will  lead  to,  well  you  wot.  The  silly-girly  sugary 
crudity  has  given  way  to  the  womanly  suavity, 
matronly  composure,  with  yet  the  sparkles  ;  they  as- 
cend ;  but  hue  and  flavour  tell  of  a  soul  that  has  come 
to  a  lodgement  there.  It  conducts  the  youthful  man 
100 


to  temples  of  dusky  thought ;  philosophers  partaking 
of  it  are  drawn  by  the  arms  of  garlanded  nympths 
about  their  necks  into  the  fathomless  of  inquiries. 
It  presents  us  with  a  sphere,  for  the  pursuit  of  the 
thing  \ve  covet  most.  It  bubbles  over  mellowness ; 
it  has,  in  the  marriage,  with  Time,  extracted  a  spice 
of  individuality  from  the  saccharine  :  by  miracle,  one 
would  say,  were  it  not  for  our  knowledge  of  the  right 
noble  issue  of  Time  when  he  and  good  things  unite. 
There  should  be  somewhere  legends  of  him — the 
wine-flask.  There  must  be  meanings  to  that  effect 
in  the  Mythology,  awaiting  unravelment.  For  the 
subject  opens  to  deeper  than  cellars,  and  is  a  tree 
with  vast  ramification  of  the  roots  and  the  spread- 
ing growth,  whereon  half  if  not  all  the  Mythic  Gods, 
Inferior  and  Superior,  Infernal  and  Celestial,  might 
be  shown  sitting  in  concord,  performing  in  concert, 
harmoniously  receiving  sacrificial  offerings  of  the  black 
or  the  white ;  and  the  black  not  extinguishing  the 
fairer  fellow.  Tell  us  of  a  certainty  that  Time  has 
embraced  the  wine-flask,  then  may  it  be  asserted 
(assuming  the  great  year  for  the  wine,  i.e.  combina- 
tions above)  that  a  speck  of  the  white  within  us  who 
drink  will  conquer,  to  rise  in  main  ascension  over 
volumes  of  the  black.  It  may,  at  a  greater  venture, 
but  confidently,  be  said  in  plain  speech,  that  the 
Bacchus  of  auspicious  birth  induces  ever  to  the 
worship  of  the  loftier  deities. 

George  Meredith. 
("  One  of  our  Conquerors") 

101 


To  R.  A.  M.  S. 


THE  Spirit  of  Wine 
Sang  in  my  glass,  and  I  listened 
With  love  to  his  odorous  music, 
His  flushed  and  magnificent  song. 

—  "  I  am  health,  I  am  heart,  I  am  life  ! 

For  I  give  for  the  asking 

The  fire  of  my  father  the  sun, 

And  the  strength  of  my  mother  the  earth, 

Inspiration  in  essence, 

I  am  wisdom  and  wit  to  the  wise, 

His  visible  muse  to  the  poet, 

The  soul  of  desire  to  the  lover, 

The  genius  of  laughter  to  all. 

"  Come,  lean  on  me,  ye  that  are  weary, 

Rise,  ye  faint-hearted  and  doubting, 

Haste,  ye  that  lag  by  the  way  ! 

I  am  pride,  the  consoler  ; 

Valour  and  hope  are  my  henchmen  ; 

I  am  the  angel  of  rest. 

"  I  am  life,  I  am  wealth,  I  am  fame  ! 
For  I  captain  an  army 
Of  shining  and  generous  dreams  ; 
And  mine,  too,  all  mine,  are  the  keys 
Of  that  secret  spiritual  shrine, 


Where,  his  work-a-day  soul  put  by, 
Shut  in  with  his  saint  of  saints — 
With  his  radiant  and  conquering  self! — 
Man  worships,  and  talks,  and  is  glad. 

"  Come,  sit  with  me,  ye  that  are  lonely, 

Ye  that  are  paid  with  disdain, 

Ye  that  are  chained,  and  would  soar  ! 

I  am  beauty  and  love  ; 

I  am  friendship,  the  comforter  ; 

I  am  that  which  forgives  and  forgets." — 

The  Spirit  of  Wine 
Sang  in  my  heart,  and  I  triumphed 
In  the  savour  and  scent  of  his  music, 
His  magnetic  and  mastering  song. 

IV.  E.  Henley. 


Claret  *o         *e>         o         •<>         -o         o 

T  LIKE  Claret.  Whenever  I  can  have  Claret  I  must 
•*•  drink  it, — 'tis  the  only  palate  affair  that  I  am  at 
all  sensual  in.  For  really  'tis  so  fine — it  fills  one's 
mouth  with  gushing  freshness — then  goes  down  cool 
and  feverless — then  you  do  not  feel  it  quarrelling  with 
your  liver — no,  it  is  rather  a  Peacemaker,  and  lies  as 
quiet  as  it  did  in  the  grape  ;  then  it  is  as  fragrant  as 
the  Queen  Bee,  and  the  more  ethereal  Part  of  it  mounts 
103 


into  the  Brain,  not  assaulting  the  cerebral  apartments 
like  a  bully  in  a  badhouse  looking  for  his  trull,  and 
hurrying  from  door  to  door  bouncing  against  the 
wainscot,  but  rather  walks  like  Aladdin  about  his 
enchanted  palace  so  gently  that  you  do  not  feel  his 
step.  Other  wines  of  a  heavy  and  spiritous  nature 
transform  a  man  into  a  Silenus  :  this  makes  him  a 
Hermes  —  and  gives  a  Woman  the  soul  and  im- 
mortality of  an  Ariadne,  for  whom  Bacchus  always 
kept  a  good  cellar  of  claret — and  even  of  that  he 
could  never  persuade  her  to  take  above  two  cups. 
I  said  this  same  claret  is  the  only  palate- passion  I 
have — I  forgot  game — I  must  plead  guilty  to  the  breast 
of  a  partridge,  the  back  of  a  hare,  the  backbone  of  a 
grouse,  the  wing  and  side  of  a  pheasant,  and  a 
woodcock  passim. 

John  Keats. 


An  Aged  and  a  Great  Wine  o        o        o 

PHE  leisurely  promenade  up  and  down  the  lawn 

with    ladies    and    deferential    gentlemen,     in 

anticipation  of  the  dinner-bell,  was  Dr.  Middleton's 

evening    pleasure.      He    walked    as    one    who    had 

formerly  danced   (in    Apollo's  and  the   young    god 

Cupid's)  elastic  on  the  muscles  of  the  calf  and  foot, 

bearing  his  iron-grey  head  in  grand  elevation.     The 

hard  labour  of  the  day  approved  the  cooling  exercise 

and  the  crowning  refreshments   of  French   cookery 

104 


and  wines  of  known  vintages.  He  was  happy  at  that 
hour  in  dispensing  wisdom  or  nugce  to  his  hearers, 
like  the  western  sun,  whose  habit  it  is,  when  he  is 
fairly  treated,  to  break  out  in  quiet  splendours,  which 
by  no  means  exhaust  his  treasury.  Blest  indeed  above 
his  fellows,  by  the  height  of  the  cross-bow-winged 
bird  in  a  fair-weather  sunset  sky  above  the  pecking 
sparrow,  is  he  that  ever  in  the  recurrent  evening  of 
his  day  sees  the  best  of  it  ahead  and  soon  to  come. 
He  has  the  rich  reward  of  a  youth  and  manhood  of 
virtuous  living.  Dr.  Middleton  misdoubted  the  future 
as  well  as  the  past  of  the  man  who  did  not,  in  becom- 
ing gravity,  exult  to  dine.  That  man  he  deemed  unfit 
for  this  world  and  the  next. 

An  example  of  the  good  fruit  of  temperance,  he  had 
a  comfortable  pride  in  his  digestion,  and  his  political 
sentiments  were  attuned  by  his  veneration  of  the 
Powers  rewarding  virtue.  We  must  have  a  stable 
world  where  this  is  to  be  done. 

The  Rev.  Doctor  was  a  fine  old  picture  ;  a  specimen 
of  art  peculiarly  English  ;  combining  in  himself  piety 
and  epicurism,  learning  and  gentlemanliness,  with 
good  room  for  each  and  a  seat  at  one  another's  table  : 
for  the  rest,  a  strong  man,  an  athlete  in  his  youth,  a 
keen  reader  of  facts  and  no  reader  of  persons,  genial, 
a  giant  at  a  task,  a  steady  worker  besides,  but  easily 
discomposed. 

Sir  Willoughby  advanced,  appearing  in  a  cordial 
mood. 


"I  need  not  ask  you  whether  you  are  better,"  he 
said  to  Clara,  sparkled  to  Laetitia,  and  raised  a  key 
to  the  level  of  Dr.  Middleton's  breast,  remarking,  "  I 
am  going  down  to  my  inner  cellar." 

"  An  inner  cellar  ! "  exclaimed  the  doctor. 

"  Sacred  from  the  butler.  It  is  interdicted  to  Stone- 
man.  Shall  I  offer  myself  as  a  guide  to  you  ?  My 
cellars  are  worth  a  visit." 

"  Cellars  are  not  catacombs.  They  are,  if  rightly 
constructed,  rightly  considered,  cloisters,  where  the 
bottle  meditates  on  joys  to  bestow,  not  on  dust  mis- 
used !  Have  you  anything  great  ? " 

"A  great  wine  aged  ninety." 

"  Is  it  associated  with  your  pedigree,  that  you 
pronounce  the  age  with  such  assurance  ?  " 

"  My  grandfather  inherited  it." 

"Your  grandfather,  Sir  Willoughby,  had  meritorious 
offspring,  not  to  speak  of  generous  progenitors.  What 
would  have  happened  had  it  fallen  into  the  female 
line  !  I  shall  be  glad  to  accompany  you.  Port  ? 
Hermitage  ?  " 

"  Port" 

"  Ah  !  we  are  in  England  ! " 

"There  will  just  be  time,"  said  Sir  Willoughby, 
inducing  Dr.  Middleton  to  step  out. 

A  chirrup  was  in  the  Rev.  Doctor's  tone  :  "  Hocks, 
too,  have  compassed  age.  I  have  tasted  senior 
Hocks.  Their  flavours  are  as  a  brook  of  many  voices  ; 
they  have  depth  also.  Senatorial  Port !  we  say.  We 
cannot  say  that  of  any  other  wine.  Port  is  deep-sea 
1 06 


deep.  It  is  in  its  flavour  deep — mark  the  difference. 
It  is  like  a  classic  tragedy,  organic  in  conception. 
An  ancient  Hermitage  has  the  light  of  the  antique  ; 
the  merit  that  it  can  grow  to  an  extreme  old  age  ;  a 
merit.  Neither  of  Hermitage  nor  of  Hock  can  you 
say  that  it  is  the  blood  of  those  long  years,  retaining 
the  strength  of  youth  with  the  wisdom  of  age.  To 
Port  for  that !  Port  is  our  noblest  legacy  !  Observe, 
I  do  not  compare  the  wines ;  I  distinguish  the 
qualities.  Let  them  live  together  for  our  enrichment  ; 
they  are  not  rivals  like  the  Idasan  Three.  Were  they 
rivals,  a  fourth  would  challenge  them.  Burgundy 
has  great  genius.  It  does  wonders  within  its  period  ; 
it  does  all  except  to  keep  up  in  the  race  ;  it  is  short- 
lived. An  aged  Burgundy  runs  with  a  beardless  Port. 
I  cherish  the  fancy  that  Port  speaks  the  sentences  of 
wisdom,  Burgundy  sings  in  inspired  Ode.  Or  put  it, 
that  Port  is  the  Homeric  hexameter,  Burgundy  the 
Pindaric  dithyramb.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

George  Meredith. 
("  The  Egoist.") 


Another  Invitation      o        *&•        o        0 

T  BEG  you  come  to-night  and  dine. 

•*-     A  welcome  waits  you,  and  sound  wine, — 
The  Roederer  chilly  to  a  charm, 
As  Juno's  breath  the  claret  warm, 
107 


The  sherry  of  an  ancient  brand. 
No  Persian  pomp,  you  understand, — 
A  soup,  a  fish,  two  meats,  and  then 
A  salad  fit  for  aldermen 
(When  aldermen,  alas  the  days  ! 
Were  really  worth  their  mayonnaise)  ; 
A  dish  of  grapes  whose  clusters  won 
Their  bronze  in  Carolinian  sun  ; 
Next,  cheese — for  you  the  Neufchatel, 
A  bit  of  Cheshire  likes  me  well ; 
Cafe  au  lait  or  coffee  black, 
With  Kirsch  or  Kiimmel  or  cognac 
(The  German  band  in  Irving  Place 
By  this  time  purple  in  the  face)  ; 
Cigars  and  pipes.    These  being  through, 
Friends  shall  drop  in,  a  very  few — 
Shakespeare  and  Milton,  and  no  more. 
When  these  are  guests  I  bolt  the  door, 
With  "  Not  at  home  "  to  anyone 
Excepting  Alfred  Tennyson. 

Anon. 


Sir  Peter 


T  N  his  last  binn  Sir  Peter  lies, 

Who  knew  not  what  it  was  to  frown  : 
Death  took  him  mellow,  by  surprise, 
And  in  his  cellar  stopp'd  him  down. 
1  08 


Through  all  our  land  we  could  not  boast 
A  knight  more  gay,  more  prompt  than  he, 

To  rise  and  fill  a  bumper  toast, 

And  pass  it  round  with  THREE  TIMES  THREE. 

None  better  knew  the  feast  to  sway, 

Or  keep  Mirth's  boat  in  better  trim  ; 
For  Nature  had  but  little  clay 

Like  that  of  which  she  moulded  him. 
The  meanest  guest  that  grac'd  his  board 

Was  there  the  freest  of  the  free, 
His  bumper  toast  when  Peter  pour'd, 

And  pass'd  it  round  with  THREE  TIMES  THREE. 

He  kept  at  true  good  humour's  mark 

The  social  flow  of  pleasure's  tide  : 
He  never  made  a  brow  look  dark, 

Nor  caused  a  tear,  but  when  he  died. 
No  sorrow  round  his  tomb  should  dwell : 

More  pleased  his  gay  old  ghost  would  be, 
For  funeral  song,  and  passing  bell, 

To  hear  no  sound  but  THREE  TIMES  THREE. 
Thomas  Love  Peacock. 


The  Pope 


'"THE  Pope,  he  leads  a  happy  life, 
-*-       He  fears  not  married  care  nor  strife, 
He  drinks  the  best  of  Rhenish  wine,  — 
I  would  the  Pope's  gay  lot  were  mine. 
109 


But  then  all  Happy's  not  his  life, 
He  has  not  maid,  nor  blooming  wife  ; 
Nor  child  has  he  to  raise  his  hope — 
I  would  not  wish  to  be  the  Pope. 

The  Sultan  better  pleases  me, 
His  is  a  life  of  jollity  ; 
His  wives  are  many  as  he  will — 
I  would  the  Sultan's  throne  then  fill. 

But  even  he's  a  wretched  man, 

He  must  obey  his  Alcoran  ; 

And  dares  not  drink  one  drop  of  wine — 

I  would  not  change  his  lot  for  mine. 

So  then  I'll  hold  my  lowly  stand, 
And  live  in  German  Vaterland  ; 
I'll  kiss  my  maiden  fair  and  fine, 
And  drink  the  best  of  Rhenish  wine. 

Whene'er  my  maiden  kisses  me, 
I'll  think  that  I  the  Sultan  be  ; 
And  when  my  cheery  glass  I  tope, 
I'll  fancy  that  I  am  the  Pope. 

Samuel  Lovet 


no 


"MIDNIGHT  DARLINGS" 


While  you  converse  with  lords  and  dukes, 

I  have  iheir  betters  here — my  books  : 

Fixed  in  an  elbow-chair  at  ease, 

I  choose  companions  as  I  please. 

I'd  rather  have  one  single  shelf 

Than  all  my  friends,  except  yourself ; 

For,  after  all  that  can  be  said, 

Our  best  acquaintance  are  the  dead. 

T.  Sheridan  (Swift's). 


Give  me 

Leave  to  enjoy  myself.     That  place,  that  does 
Contain  my  books,  the  best  companions,  is 
To  me  a  glorious  court,  where  hourly  I 
Converse  with  the  old  sages  and  philosophers. 
And  sometimes  for  variety,  I  confer 
With  kings  and  emperors,  and  weigh  their  counsels ; 
Calling  their  victories,  if  unjustly  got, 
Unto  a  strict  account :  and,  in  my  fancy, 
Deface  their  ill-planned  statues.     Can  I  then 
Part  with  such  constant  pleasures,  to  embrace 
Uncertain  vanities?    No  ;  be  it  your  care 
To  augment  a  heap  of  wealth  ;  it  shall  be  mine 
To  incre  se  in  knowledge.     Lights  there,  for  my  study  ! 
John  Fletcher  (The  Elder  Brother), 


Candle-Light  *t>        o        o        o        o 

T  T  AIL,  candle-light !  without  disparagement  to  sun 
•*•-*•  or  moon,  the  kindliest  luminary  of  the  three — 
if  we  may  not  rather  style  thee  their  radiant  deputy, 
mild  viceroy  of  the  moon  ! — We  love  to  read,  talk,  sit 
silent,  eat,  drink,  sleep,  by  candle-light.  They  are 
everybody's  sun  and  moon.  This  is  our  peculiar  and 
household  planet.  Wanting  it,  what  savage  unsocial 
nights  must  our  ancestors  have  spent,  wintering  in 
caves  and  unillumined  fastnesses  !  They  must  have 
lain  about  and  grumbled  at  one  another  in  the  dark. 
What  repartees  could  have  passed,  when  you  must 
have  felt  about  for  a  smile,  and  handled  a  neighbour's 
cheek  to  be  sure  that  he  understood  it  ?  This  accounts 
for  the  seriousness  of  the  elder  poetry.  It  has  a 
sombre  cast  (try  Hesiod  or  Ossian),  derived  from  the 
tradition  of  those  unlantern'd  nights.  Jokes  came  in 
with  candles.  .  .  . 

There  is  absolutely  no  such  thing  as  reading,  but 
by  a  candle.  We  have  tried  the  affectation  of  a  book 
at  noon-day  in  gardens,  and  in  sultry  arbours  ;  but  it 
was  labour  thrown  away.  Those  gay  motes  in  the 
beam  come  about  you,  hovering  and  teazing,  like  so 

!i  113 


many  coquettes,  that  will  have  you  all  to  their  self; 
and  are  jealous  of  your  abstractions.  By  the  mid- 
night taper,  the  writer  digests  his  meditations.  By 
the  same  light,  we  must  approach  to  their  perusal,  if 
we  would  catch  the  flame,  the  odour.  It  is  a  mockery, 
all  that  is  reported  of  the  influential  Phoebus.  No 
true  poem  ever  owed  its  birth  to  the  sun's  light. 
They  are  abstracted  works — 

"Things  that  were  bora,  when  none  but  the  suH  night, 
And  his  dumb  «y»<n<*)  saw  his  pinching  throes." 

Marry,  daylight — daylight  might  furnish  the  images, 
die  crude  material;  but  for  the  fine  shapings,  the 
true  turning  and  filing  (as  mine  author  hath  it),  they 
must  be  content  to  hold  their  inspiration  of  the  candle. 
The  mild  internal  light,  that  reveals  them,  like  fires 
on  the  domestic  hearth,  goes  out  in  the  sunshine. 
Night  and  silence  call  out  the  starry  fancies.  Milton's 
Morning  Hymn  in  Paradise,  we  would  hold  a  good 
wager,  was  penned  at  midnight ;  and  Taylor's  rich 
description  of  a  sunrise  smells  decidedly  of  the  taper. 
Even  ourself,  in  these  our  humbler  lucubrations,  tune 
our  best  measured  cadences  (Prose  has  her  cadences) 
not  unfrequentry  to  the  charm  of  the  drowsier  watch- 
man, "blessing  the  doors";  or  the  wild  sweeps  of 
wind  at  midnight.  Even  now  a  loftier  speculation 
than  we  have  yet  attempted,  courts  our  endeavours. 
We  would  indite  something  about  the  Solar  System. 
— Betty  i  bring  the  candles. 

Charles  Lamb. 


114 


Ballade  of  the  Bookworm  o        o 

"C*AR  in  the  Past  I  peer,  and  see 
•^       A  Child  upion  the  Nursery  floor, 
A  Child  with  book  upon  his  knee, 
\\~ho  asks,  like  Oliver,  for  more  ! 
The  number  of  his  years  is  iv, 
And  yet  in  letters  hath  he  skill, 
How  deep  he  dives  in  Fairy-lore  ! 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 


One  gift  the  Fairies  gave  me  :  (Three 
They  commonly  bestowed  of  yore) 
The  Love  of  Books,  the  Golden  Key 
That  opens  the  Enchanted  Door  ; 
Behind  it  BLUEBEARD  lurks,  and  o'er 
And  o'er  doth  JACK  his  Giants  kill, 
And  there  is  all  ALADDIN'S  store, — 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 


Take  all,  but  leave  my  Books  to  me ! 
These  heavy  creels  of  old  we  bore 
We  fill  not  now,  nor  wander  free, 
Nor  wear  the  heart  that  once  we  wore  ; 
Not  now  each  River  seems  to  pour 
His  waters  from  the  Muse's  hill ; 
Though  something's  gone  from  stream  and  shore, 
The  Books  I  loved,  I  love  them  still ! 
"5 


ENVOY  ! 

Fate,  that  art  Queen  by  shore  and  sea, 
We  bow  submissive  to  thy  will, 
Ah  grant,  by  some  benign  decree, 
The  Books  I  loved — to  love  them  still. 

Andrew  Lang, 


My  Books 


r  I  ^HEY  dwell  in  the  odour  of  camphor, 
-*•       They  stand  in  a  Sheraton  shrine, 
They  are  "  warranted  early  editions," 
These  worshipful  tomes  of  mine  ;  — 

In  their  creamiest  "  Oxford  vellum," 
In  their  redolent  "  crushed  Levant," 

With  their  delicate  watered  linings, 
They  are  jewels  of  price,  I  grant  ;  — 

Blind-tooled  and  morocco-jointed, 
They  have  Bedford's  daintiest  dress, 

They  are  graceful,  attenuate,  polished, 
But  they  gather  the  dust,  no  less  ;  — 

For  the  row  that  I  prize  is  yonder, 
Away  on  the  unglazed  shelves, 

The  bulged  and  the  bruised  octavos, 
The  dear  and  the  dumpy  twelves,  — 
116 


Montaigne  with  his  sheepskin  blistered, 
And  Howell  the  worse  for  wear, 

And  the  worm-drilled  Jesuit's  Horace, 
And  the  little  old  cropped  Moliere, — 

And  the  Burton  I  bought  for  a  florin, 
And  the  Rabelais  foxed  and  flea'd, — 

For  the  others  I  never  have  opened, 
But  those  are  the  books  I  read. 

Austin  Dobson. 


To  Live  Merrily,  and  to  Trust  to  Good  Verses 

TV  T  OW  is  the  time  for  mirth, 
*•          Nor  cheek  or  tongue  be  dumbe  : 
For  with  the  flowrie  earth 
The  golden  pomp  is  come. 

The  golden  pomp  is  come  ; 

For  now  each  tree  do's  weare 
(Made  of  her  Pap  and  Gum) 

Rich  beads  of  Amber  here. 

Now  raignes  the  Rose,  and  now 
Th'  Arabian  Dew  besmears 

My  uncontrolled  brow, 
And  my  retorted  haires. 
117 


Homer,  this  Health  to  thee, 

In  Sack  of  such  a  kind, 
That  it  wo'd  make  thee  see, 

Though  thou  wert  ne'r  so  blind. 

Next,  Virgil,  He  call  forth, 
To  pledge  this  second  Health 

In  Wine,  whose  each  cup's  worth 
An  Indian  Common-wealth. 

A  Goblet  next  He  drink 

To  Ovid  ;  and  suppose, 
Made  he  the  pledge,  he'd  think 

The  world  had  all  one  Nose. 

Then  this  immensive  cup 

Of  Aromatike  wine, 
Catullus,  I  quaffe  up 

To  that  Terce  Muse  of  thine. 

Wild  I  am  now  with  heat ; 

O  Bacchus  !  coole  thy  Raies  ! 
Or  frantick  I  shall  eate 

Thy  Thyrse,  and  bite  the  Bayes. 

Round,  round  the  roof  do's  run  ; 

And  being  ravisht  thus, 
Come,  I  will  drink  a  Tun 

To  my  Propertius. 
118 


Now,  to  Tibullus,  next, 

This  flood  I  drink  to  thee  : 
But  stay  ;  I  see  a  Text, 

That  this  presents  to  me. 

Behold,  Tibullus  lies 

Here  burnt,  whose  small  return     . 
Of  ashes,  scarce  suffice 

To  fill  a  little  Urne. 

Trust  to  good  Verses,  then  ; 

They  onely  will  aspire, 
When  Pyramids,  as  men, 

Are  lost  i'  th'  funeral  fire. 

And  when  all  Bodies  meet 

In  Lethe  to  be  drown'd  ; 
Then  onely  Numbers  sweet 

With  endless  life  are  crown'd. 

Robert  Herrick. 


Ode  on  the  Poets 


"D  ARDS  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
*-'     Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Have  ye  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-liv'd  in  regions  new? 
Yes,  and  those  of  heaven  commune 
With  the  spheres  of  sun  and  moon  ; 
119 


With  the  noise  of  fountains  wond'rous 
And  the  parle  of  voices  thund'rous  ; 
With  the  whisper  of  heaven's  trees 
And  one  another,  in  soft  ease 
Seated  on  Elysian  lawns, 
Brows'd  by  none  but  Dian's  fawns  ; 
Underneath  large  blue-bells  tented, 
Where  the  daisies  are  rose-scented, 
And  the  rose  herself  has  got 
Perfume  which  on  earth  is  not, 
Where  the  nightingale  doth  sing, 
Not  a  senseless,  tranced  thing, 
But  divine  melodious  truth  ; 
Philosophic  numbers  smooth  ; 
Tales  and  golden  histories 
Of  heaven  and  its  mysteries. 


Thus  ye  live  on  high,  and  then 
On  the  earth  ye  live  again  ; 
And  the  souls  ye  left  behind  you 
Teach  us,  here,  the  way  to  find  you, 
Where  your  other  souls  are  joying, 
Never  slumber'd,  never  cloying. 
Here,  your  earth-born  souls  still  speak 
To  mortals,  of  their  little  week  ; 
Of  their  sorrows  and  delights  ; 
Of  their  passions  and  their  spites  ; 
Of  their  glory  and  their  shame  ; 
What  doth  strengthen  and  what  maim. 
120 


Thus  ye  teach  us,  every  day, 
Wisdom,  though  fled  far  away. 

Bards  of  Passion  and  of  Mirth, 
Ye  have  left  your  souls  on  earth  ! 
Ye  have  souls  in  heaven  too, 
Double-liv'd  in  regions  new  1 

/.  Keats. 


The  Poet     o        o        o        o        o        o 

TV T  OW,  therein,  of  all  sciences  (I  speak  still  of 
human,  and  according  to  the  human  conceit), 
is  our  poet  the  monarch.  For  he  doth  not  only  show 
the  way,  but  giveth  so  sweet  a  prospect  into  the  way, 
as  will  entice  any  man  to  enter  into  it ;  nay,  he  doth, 
as  if  your  journey  should  lie  through  a  fair  vineyard, 
at  the  very  first  give  you  a  cluster  of  grapes,  that  full 
of  that  taste  you  may  long  to  pass  farther.  He 
beginneth  not  with  obscure  definitions,  which  must 
blur  the  margin  with  interpretations,  and  load  the 
memory  with  doubtfulness,  but  he  cometh  to  you  with 
words  set  in  delightful  proportion,  either  accompanied 
with,  or  prepared  for,  the  well-enchanting  skill  of 
music ;  and  with  a  tale,  forsooth,  he  cometh  unto 
you  ;  with  a  tale  which  holdeth  children  from  play, 
and  old  men  from  the  chimney-corner. 

Sir  Philip  Sidney. 

121 


Reading       o        o         o        o        *£>        <> 

SHALL  I  be  thought  fantastical,  if  I  confess  that 
the  names  of  some  of  our  poets  sound  sweeter, 
and  have  a  finer  relish  to  the  ear — to  mine,  at  least — 
than  that  of  Milton  or  of  Shakespeare  ?  It  may  be, 
that  the  latter  are  more  staled  and  rung  upon  in 
common  discourse.  The  sweetest  names,  and  which 
carry  a  perfume  in  the  mention,  are,  Kit  Marlowe, 
Drayton,  Drummond  of  Hawthornden,  and  Cowley. 

Much  depends  upon  when  and  where  you  read  a 
book.  In  the  five  or  six  impatient  minutes  before  the 
dinner  is  quite  ready,  who  would  think  of  taking  up 
the  Faerie  Queene  for  a  stop-gap,  or  a  volume  of 
Bishop  Andrewes'  sermons  ? 

Milton  almost  requires  a  solemn  service  of  music  to 
be  played  before  you  enter  upon  him.  But  he  brings 
his  music,  to  which,  who  listens,  had  need  bring  docile 
thoughts  and  purged  ears. 

Winter  evenings — the  world  shut  out — with  less  of 
ceremony  the  gentle  Shakespeare  enters.  At  such  a 
season,  the  Tempest,  or  his  own  Winter's  Tale — 

These  two  poets  you  cannot  avoid  reading  aloud — 
to  yourself,  or  (as  it  chances)  to  some  single  person 
listening.  More  than  one — and  it  degenerates  into  an 
audience. 

Books  of  quick  interest,  that  hurry  on  for  incidents, 
are  for  the  eye  to  glide  over  only.  It  will  not  do  to 
read  them  out. 

Charles  Lamb. 

122 


Old  Books  are  Best        o        o        •&>        o 

D  books  are  best  !     With  what  delight 
Does  "  Faithorne  fecit "  greet  our  sight ; 
On  frontispiece  or  title-page 
Of  that  old  time,  when  on  the  stage 
"  Sweet  Nell ''  set  "  Rowley's  "  heart  alight ! 

And  you,  O  friend,  to  whom  I  write, 
Must  not  deny,  e'en  though  you  might, 

Through  fear  of  modern  pirates'  rage, 
Old  books  are  best. 

What  though  the  print  be  not  so  bright, 
The  paper  dark,  the  binding  slight  ? 
Our  author,  be  he  dull  or  sage, 
Returning  from  that  distant  age 
So  lives  again,  we  say  of  right : 
Old  books  are  best. 

Beverly  Chew. 


A  Wish     M£>         o         M£>         o         ^e>         o 

OF  two  things  on z  :  with  Chaucer  let  me  ride, 
And  hear  the  Pilgrims'  tales  ;  or,  that  denied, 
Let  me  with  Petrarch  in  a  aew-sprent  grove 
Ring  endless  changes  on  the  bells  of  love. 

T.  E.  Brown. 
123 


Chaucer       o        o        o        o        o        o 

AN  old  man  in  a  lodge  within  a  park  ; 
The  chamber  walls  depicted  all  around 
With  portraitures  of  huntsman,  hawk,  and  hound, 
And  the  hurt  deer.     He  listeneth  to  the  lark, 
Whose  song  comes  with  the  sunshine  through  the  dark 
Of  painted  glass  in  leaden  lattice  bound  ; 
He  listeneth  and  he  laugheth  at  the  sound, 
Then  writeth  in  a  book  like  any  clerk. 
He  is  the  poet  of  the  dawn,  who  wrote 
The  Canterbury  Tales,  and  his  old  age 

Made  beautiful  with  song  ;  and  as  I  read 
I  hear  the  crowing  cock,  I  hear  the  note 
Of  lark  and  linnet,  and  from  every  page 

Rise  odours  of  ploughed  field  or  flowery  mead. 
H.  W.  Longfellow, 


On  First  Looking  into  Chapman's  Homer  o 

\l\  UCH  have  I  travell'd  in  the  realms  of  gold, 
•*•»•'•     And  many  goodly  states  and  kingdoms  seen  ; 

Round  many  western  islands  have  I  been 
Which  bards  in  fealty  to  Apollo  hold. 
-Oft  of  one  wide  expanse  had  I  been  told 

That  deep-brow'd  Homer  ruled  as  his  demesne  : 
Yet  did  I  never  breathe  its  pure  serene 
Till  I  heard  Chapman  speak  out  loud  and  bold  : 
124 


Then  felt  I  like  some  watcher  of  the  skies 
When  a  new  planet  swims  into  his  ken  ; 

Or  like  stout  Cortez — when  with  eagle  eyes 
He  star'd  at  the  Pacific — and  all  his  men 

Look'd  at  each  other  with  a  wild  surmise — 
Silent,  upon  a  peak  in  Darien. 

/.  Keats. 


The  Odyssey  o        o        o        o        *£ 

A  S  one  that  for  a  weary  space  has  lain, 

Lulled  by  the  song  of  Circe  and  her  wine, 
In  gardens  near  the  pale  of  Proserpine, 
Where  that  yEasan  isle  forgets  the  main, 
And  only  the  low  lutes  of  love  complain, 
And  only  shadows  of  wan  lovers  pine, 
As  such  an  one  were  glad  to  know  the  brine 
Salt  on  his  lips,  and  the  large  air  again, — 
So  gladly  from  the  songs  of  modern  speech 
Men  turn,  and  see  the  stars,  and  feel  the  free 
Shrill  wind  beyond  the  close  of  heavy  flowers, 
And  through  the  music  of  the  languid  hours, 
They  hear  like  ocean  on  a  western  beach 
The  surge  and  thunder  of  the  Odyssey. 

Andrew  Lang. 


125 


Sophocles    *£>        o        o         o         o         ^> 

GENTLY  over  the  tomb  of  Sophocles,  gently  creep, 
O  ivy,  flinging  forth  thy  pale  tresses,  and  all 
about  let  the  rose-petal  blow,  and  the  clustered  vine 
shed  her  soft  tendrils  round,  for  the  sake  of  the  wise- 
hearted  eloquence  mingled  of  the  Muses  and  Graces 
that  lived  on  his  honeyed  tongue. 

Simmias. 
(J.  W.  Mackail's  translation.) 


Aristophanes  •<£>         e>         o         o         o 

r  I  "'HE  Graces,  seeking  to  take  a  sanctuary  that  will 
not  fall,  found  the  soul  of  Aristophanes. 

Plato. 
(J.  W.  Mackail's  translation.) 


Pindar        *o         •<?•         ~^>         ^>         «^>         «^» 

A  S  high  as  the  trumpet's  blast  outsounds  the  thin 
flute,  so  high  above  all  others  did  thy  lyre  ring  ; 
nor  idly  did  the  tawny  swarm  mould  their  waxen- 
celled  honey,  O  Pindar,  about  thy  tender  lips  :  witness 
the  horned  god  of  Maenalus  when  he  sang  thy  hymn 
and  forgot  his  own  pastoral  reeds. 

Antipater  of  Sidon. 
(J.  W.  Mackail's  translation.) 

126 


Meleager     o        •*>        -^>        *t>        •*>        o 

'THREAD  softly,  O  stranger;  for  here  an  old  man 
-*•  sleeps  among  the  holy  dead,  lulled  in  the 
slumber  due  to  all,  Meleager  son  of  Eucrates,  who 
united  Love  of  the  sweet  tears  and  the  Muses  with 
the  joyous  Graces  ;  whom  God-begotten  Tyre  brought 
to  manhood,  and  the  sacred  land  of  Gadara,  but  lovely 
Cos  nursed  in  old  age  among  the  Meropes.  But  if 
thou  art  a  Syrian,  say  Salam,  and  if  a  Phoenician, 
Naidios,  and  if  a  Greek,  Hail ;  they  are  the  same. 

Meleager. 
(J.  W.  Mackail's  translation. ) 


Catullus 


'  I  "ELL  me  not  what  too  well  I  know 
•••       About  the  bard  of  Sirmio  — 

Yes,  in  Thalia's  son 

Such  stains  there  are  —  as  when  a  Grace 
Sprinkles  another's  laughing  face 
With  nectar,  and  runs  on. 

Walter  Savage  Lnndor. 


127 


Boccaccio    o        o        •*>        o         •*>         - 

"OOCCACCIO.for  you  laughed  all  laughs  that  are 

*-*     The  Cynic  scoff,  the  chuckle  of  the  churl, 

The  laugh  that  ripples  over  reefs  of  pearl, 

The  broad,  the  sly,  the  hugely  jocular  : 

Men  call  you  lewd  and  coarse,  allege  you  mar 

The  music  that,  withdrawn  your  ribald  skirl, 

Were  sweet  as  note  of  mavis  or  of  merle — 

Wherefore  they  frown,  and  rate  you  at  the  bar. 

One  thing  is  proved  :  To  count  the  sad  degrees 

Upon  the  Plague's  dim  dial,  catch  the  tone 

Of  a  great  death  that  lies  upon  a  land, 

Feel  nature's  ties,  yet  hold  with  steadfast  hand 

The  diamond,  you  are  three  that  stand  alone — 

You,  and  Lucretius,  and  Thucydides. 

T.  E.  Brown. 


To  Sir  Henry  Goodyere     o         -o         ^>         o 

WHEN  I  would  know  thee,  Goodyere,  my  thought 
looks 

Upon  thy  well-made  choice  of  friends  and  books  ; 
Then  do  I  love  thee,  and  behold  thy  ends 
In  making  thy  friends  books,  and  thy  books  friends. 

Ben  Jonson. 


128 


Dumas         o        ^>        o        o        o        o 

"\T7HAT  book  so  delighted  him,  and  blinded  him 
*  •  to  all  the  rest  of  the  world,  so  that  he  did 
not  care  to  see  the  apple-woman  with  her  fruit,  or 
(more  tempting  still  to  sons  of  Eve)  the  pretty  girls 
with  their  apple  cheeks,  who  laughed  and  prattled 
round  the  fountain  ?  What  was  the  book  ?  Do  you 
suppose  it  was  Livy,  or  the  Greek  grammar  ?  No ; 
it  was  a  Novel  that  you  were  reading,  you  lazy,  not 
very  clean,  good-for-nothing,  sensible  boy.  It  was 
D'Artagnan  locking  up  General  Monk  in  a  box,  or 
almost  succeeding  in  keeping  Charles  the  First's  head 
on.  It  was  the  prisoner  of  the  Chateau  d'lf  cutting 
himself  out  of  the  sack  fifty  feet  under  the  water  (I 
mention  the  novels  I  like  best  myself—  novels  without 
love  or  talking,  or  any  of  that  sort  of  nonsense,  but 
containing  plenty  of  fighting,  escaping,  robbery,  and 
rescuing) — cutting  himself  out  of  the  sack  and  swim- 
ming to  the  island  of  Monte  Cristo.  O  Dumas  !  O 
thou  brave,  kind,  gallant  old  Alexandra  !  I  hereby 
offer  thee  homage,  and  give  thee  thanks  for  many 
pleasant  hours.  I  have  read  thee  (being  sick  in  bed; 
for  thirteen  hours  of  a  happy  day,  and  had  the  ladies 
of  the  house  fighting  for  the  volumes.  Be  assured 
that  lazy  boy  was  reading  Dumas  (or  I  will  go  so  far 
as  to  let  the  reader  here  pronounce  the  eulogium,  or 
insert  the  name  of  his  favourite  author)  ;  and  as  for 
the  anger,  or  it  may  be,  the  reverberations  of  his 
schoolmaster,  or  the  remonstrances  of  his  father,  or 
I  129 


the  tender  pleadings  of  his  mother  that  he  should  not 
let  the  supper  grow  cold — I  don't  believe  the  scape- 
grace cared  one  fig.  No  !  Figs  are  sweet,  but  fictions 
are  sweeter. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


Hazlitt's  Way         o        ^>        *>        -o        o 

OH,  delightful !  To  cut  open  the  leives,  to  inhale 
the  fragrance  of  the  scarcely  dry  paper,  to  ex- 
amine the  type  to  see  who  is  the  printer  (which  is 
some  clue  to  the  value  that  is  set  upon  the  work),  to 
launch  out  into  regions  of  thought  and  invention  never 
trod  till  now,  and  to  explore  characters  that  never  met 
a  human  eye  before — this  is  a  luxury  worth  sacrificing 
a  dinner-party  or  a  few  hours  of  a  spare  morning  to. 
When  I  take  up  a  work  that  I  have  read  before  (the 
oftener  the  better)  I  know  what  I  have  to  expect.  The 
satisfaction  is  not  lessened  by  being  anticipated. 
When  the  entertainment  is  altogether  new,  I  sit  down 
to  it  as  I  should  to  a  strange  dish, — turn  and  pick  out 
a  bit  here  and  there,  and  am  in  doubt  what  to  think 
of  the  composition.  There  is  a  want  of  confidence 
and  security  to  second  appetite.  New-fangled  books 
are  also  like  made-dishes  in  this  respect,  that  they  are 
generally  little  else  than  hashes  and  rifaccimenti  of 
what  has  been  served  up  entire  and  in  a  more  natural 
state  at  other  times.  Besides,  in  thus  turning  to  a 
130 


well-known  author,  there  is  not  only  an  assurance  that 
my  time  will  not  be  thrown  away,  or  my  palate 
nauseated  with  the  most  insipid  or  vilest  trash, — but  I 
shake  hands  with,  and  look  an  old  tried  and  valued 
friend  in  the  face, — compare  notes,  and  chat  the  hours 
away.  It  is  true,  we  form  dear  friendships  with  such 
ideal  guests — dearer,  alas  !  and  more  lasting,  than 
those  with  our  most  intimate  acquaintance.  In  read- 
ing a  book  which  is  an  old  favourite  with  me  (say  the 
first  novel  I  ever  read),  I  not  only  have  the  pleasure  of 
imagination  and  of  a  critical  relish  of  the  work,  but 
the  pleasures  of  memory  added  to  it.  It  recalls  the 
same  feelings  and  associations  which  I  had  in  first 
reading  it,  and  which  I  can  never  have  again  in  any 
other  way.  Standard  productions  of  this  kind  are 
links  in  the  chain  of  our  conscious  being.  They  bind 
together  the  different  scattered  divisions  of  our 
personal  identity.  They  are  landmarks  and  guides  in 
our  journey  through  life.  They  are  pegs  and  loops 
on  which  we  can  hang  up,  or  from  which  we  can  take 
down,  at  pleasure,  the  wardrobe  of  a  moral  imagina- 
tion, the  relics  of  our  best  affections,  the  tokens  and 
records  of  our  happiest  hours.  They  are  "  for  thought 
and  for  remembrance  ! "  They  are  like  Fortunatus's 
Wishing-Cap— they  give  us  the  best  riches — those  of 
Fancy  ;  and  transport  us,  not  over  half  the  globe,  but 
(which  is  better)  over  half  our  lives,  at  a  word's  notice  ! 
I  think  of  the  time  "when  I  was  in  my  father's  house, 
and  my  path  ran  down  with  butter  and  honey,"— when 
I  was  a  little  thoughtless  child,  and  had  no  other  wish 


or  care  but  to  con  my  daily  task  and  be  happy ! 
—  Tom  Jones,  I  remember,  was  the  first  work  that 
broke  the  spell.  It  came  down  in  numbers  once  a 
fortnight,  in  Cooke's  pocket  edition,  embellished  with 
cuts.  I  had  hitherto  read  only  in  school-books,  and 
a  tiresome  ecclesiastical  history  (with  the  exception  of 
Mrs.  Radcliffe's  Romance  of  the  Forest}  :  but  this  had 
a  different  relish  with  it,  —  "sweet  in  the  mouth," 
though  not  "bitter  in  the  belly."  It  smacked  of  the 
world  I  lived  in,  and  in  which  I  was  to  live — arid 
showed  me  groups,  "gay  creatures,"  not  "of  the 
element,"  but  of  the  earth  ;  not  "  living  in  the  clouds," 
but  travelling  the  same  road  that  I  did  ;  some  that  had 
passed  on  before  me,  and  others  that  might  soon  over- 
take me.  My  heart  had  palpitated  at  the  thoughts  of 
a  boarding-school  ball,  or  gala-day  at  midsummer  or 
Christmas  :  but  the  world  I  had  found  out  in  Cooke's 
edition  of  the  British  Novelists  was  to  me  a  dance 
through  life,  a  perpetual  gala -day.  The  sixpenny 
numbers  of  this  work  regularly  contrived  to  leave  off 
just  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and  in  the  nick  of  a 
story.  With  what  eagerness  I  used  to  look  forward 
to  the  next  number,  and  open  the  prints  !  Ah  !  never 
again  shall  I  feel  the  enthusiastic  delight  with  which 
I  gazed  at  the  figures,  and  anticipated  the  story  and 
adventures  of  Major  Bath  and  Commodore  Trunion, 
of  Trim  and  my  Uncle  Toby,  of  Don  Quixote  and 
Sancho  and  Dapple,  of  Gil  Bias  and  Dame  Borenza 
Sephora,  of  Laura  and  the  fair  Lucretia,  whose  lips 
open  and  shut  like  buds  of  roses.  To  what  nameless 
132 


ideas  did  they  give  rise, — with  what  airy  delights  I 
filled  up  the  outlines,  as  I  hung  in  silence  over  the 
page! 

The  greatest  pleasure  in  life  is  that  of  reading,  while 
we  are  young.  I  have  had  as  much  of  this  pleasure 
as  perhaps  anyone.  As  I  grow  older,  it  fades ;  or 
else  the  stronger  stimulus  of  writing  takes  off  the  edge 
of  it.  At  present  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination 
for  it :  yet  I  should  like  to  devote  a  year's  entire 
leisure  to  a  course  of  the  English  Novelists  ;  and 
perhaps  clap  on  that  sly  old  knave,  Sir  Walter,  to  the 
end  of  the  list.  It  is  astonishing  how  I  used  formerly 
to  relish  the  style  of  certain  authors,  at  a  time  when  I 
myself  despaired  of  writing  a  single  line.  Probably 
this  was  the  reason.  It  is  not  in  mental  as  in  natural 
ascent  —  intellectual  objects  seem  higher  when  we 
survey  them  from  below,  than  when  we  look  down 
from  any  given  elevation  above  the  common  level. 
My  three  favourite  writers  about  the  time  I  speak  of 
were  Burke,  Junius,  and  Rousseau.  I  was  never 
weary  of  admiring  and  wondering  at  the  felicities  of 
the  style,  the  turns  of  expression,  the  refinements  of 
thought  and  sentiment :  I  laid  the  book  down  to  find 
out  the  secret  of  so  much  strength  and  beauty,  and 
took  it  up  again  in  despair,  to  read  on  and  admire. 
So  I  passed  whole  days,  months,  and  I  may  add, 
years  ;  and  have  only  this  to  say  now,  that  as  my  life 
began,  so  I  could  wish  that  it  may  end.  The  last  time 
I  tasted  this  luxury  in  its  full  perfection  was  one  day 

133 


after  a  sultry  day's  walk  in  summer  between  Farnham 
and  Alton.  I  was  fairly  tired  out ;  I  walked  into  an 
inn-yard  (I  think  at  the  latter  place) ;  I  was  shown  by 
the  waiter  to  what  looked  at  first  like  common  out- 
houses at  the  other  end  of  it,  but  they  turned  out  to  be 
a  suite  of  rooms,  probably  a  hundred  years  old — the 
one  I  entered  opened  into  an  old-fashioned  garden, 
embellished  with  beds  of  larkspur  and  a  leaden 
Mercury  ;  it  was.  wainscoted,  and  there  was  a  grave- 
looking,  dark -coloured  portrait  of  Charles  II.  hanging 
over  the  tiled  chimney-piece.  I  had  Love  for  Love  in 
my  pocket,  and  began  to  read  ;  coffee  was  brought  in 
in  a  silver  coffee-pot ;  the  cream,  the  bread  and  butter, 
everything  was  excellent,  and  the  flavour  of  Congreve's 
style  prevailed  over  all.  I  prolonged  the  entertain- 
ment till  a  late  hour,  and  relished  this  divine  comedy 
better  even  than  when  I  used  to  see  it  played  by  Miss 
Mellon,  as  Miss  Prue ;  Bob  Palmer,  as  Tattle ;  and 
Bannister,  as  honest  Ben.  This  circumstance  happened 
just  five  years  ago,  and  it  seems  like  yesterday.  If  I 
count  my  life  so  by  lustres,  it  will  soon  glide  away  ; 
yet  I  shall  not  have  to  repine,  if,  while  it  lasts,  it  is 
enriched  with  a  few  such  recollections  ! 

William  Hazlitt. 


134 


"  For  Human  I  )elight "      o        o        o        o 

A  FTER  once  more  going  through  my  Don 
^*-  Quixote  ("siempre  verde "  too,  if  ever  Book 
was),  I  returned  to  another  of  the  Evergreens, 
Boccaccio,  which  I  found  by  a  Pencil  mark  at  the 
Volume's  end  I  had  last  read  on  board  the  little  Ship 
I  then  had,  nine  years  ago.  And  I  have  shut  out  the 
accursed  "  Eastern  Question  "  by  reading  the  Stories, 
as  the  "  lieta  Brigata  "  shut  out  the  Plague  by  telling 
them.  Perhaps  Mr.  Lowell  will  give  us  Boccaccio 
one  day,  and  Cervantes?  And  many  more,  whom 
Ste.  Beuve  has  left  to  be  done  by  him.  I  fancy 
Boccaccio  must  be  read  in  his  Italian,  as  Cervantes 
in  his  Spanish:  the  Language  fitting  either  "like  a 
Glove,"  as  we  say.  Boccaccio's  Humour  in  his 
Country  People,  Friars,  Scolds,  etc.,  is  capital :  as 
well,  of  course,  as  the  easy  Grace  and  Tenderness 
of  other  Parts.  One  thinks  that  no  one  who  had 
well  read  him  and  Don  Quixote  would  ever  write 
with  a  strain  again,  as  is  the  curse  of  nearly  all 
modern  Literature.  I  know  that  "  Easy  Writing  is 

d d  hard   Reading."    Of  course  the   Man  must 

be  a  Man  of  Genius  to  take  his  Ease  :  but  if  he  be, 
let  him  take  it.  I  suppose  that  such  as  Dante,  and 
Milton,  and  my  Daddy  [Wordsworth],  took  it  far 
from  easy :  well,  they  dwell  apart  in  the  Empyrean  ; 
but  for  Human  Delight,  Shakespeare,  Cervantes, 
Boccaccio,  and  Scott ! 

Edward  FitzGerald  (to  C.  E.  Norton). 

'35 


To  the  Gentle  Reader        o         o         o        o 

"A  French  writer  (whom  I  love  well)  speaks  of  three 
kinds  of  companions — men,  women,  and  books." 

Sir  John  Davys. 

'"PHREE  kinds  of  companions,  men,  women  and 

books, 

Were  enough,  said  the  elderly  Sage,  for  his  ends. 
And  the  women  we  deem  that  he  chose  for  their  looks, 
And  the  men  for  their  cellars  :  the  books  were  his 

friends  : 
"  Man  delights  me  not,"  often,  "  nor  woman,"  but 

books 
Are  the  best  of  good  comrades  in  loneliest  nooks. 

For  man  will  be  wrangling — for  women  will  fret 

About  everything  infinitesimal  small : 
Like  the  Sage  in  our  Plato,  I'm  "anxious  to  get 

On  the  side  " — on  the  sunnier  side — "  of  a  wall." 
Let  the  wind  of  the  world  toss  the  nations  like  rooks, 
If  only  you'll  leave  me  at  peace  with  my  Books. 

And  which  are  my  books?     Why,  'tis  much  as  you 

please, 

For  given  'tis  a  book,  it  can  hardly  be  wrong, 
And  Bradshaw  himself  I  can  study  with  ease, 
Though  for  choice  I    might  call  for  a  Sermon  or 

Song; 

And  Locker  on  London,  and  Sala  on  Cooks, 
And  "  Tom  Brown,"  and  Plotinus,  they're  all  of  them 
Books. 

136 


There's  Fielding  to  lap  one  in  currents  of  mirth  ; 

There's  Herrick  to  sing  of  a  flower  or  a  fay  ; 
Or  good  Maitre  Frangoys  to  bring  one  to  earth, 

If  Shelley  or  Coleridge  have  snatched  one  away  ; 
There's  Muller  on  Speech,  there's  Gurney  on  Spooks, 
There's  Tylor  on  Totems,  there's  all  sorts  of  Books. 

There's  roaming  in  regions  where  every  one's  been, 

Encounters  where  no  one  was  ever  before  ; 
There's  "  Leaves"  from  the  Highlands  we  owe  to  the 

Queen, 

There's  Holly's  and  Leo's  Adventures  in  Kor ; 
There's     Tanner,    who     dwelt    with     Pawnees     and 

Chinooks — 
You  can  cover  a  great  deal  of  country  in  Books. 

There  are  books,  highly  thought  of,  that  nobody  reads, 
There's  Gensius'  dearly  delectable  tome 

On  the  Cannibal — he  on  his  neighbour  who  feeds — 
And  in  blood-red  morocco  'tis  bound,  by  Derome  ; 

There's  Montaigne  here  (a  Foppens),  there's  Roberts 
(on  Flukes), 

There's  Elzevirs,  Aldines,  and  Gryphius'  Books. 

There's  Bunyan,  there's  Walton,  in  early  editions, 
There's  many  a  quarto  uncommonly  rare  ; 

There's  quaint  old  Quevedo,  a  dream  with  his  visions  ; 
There's  Jonson  the  portly,  and  Burton  the  spare  ; 

There's   Boston    of   Ettrick,   who    preached    of  the 
"  Crooks 

In  the  Lots  "  of  us  mortals,  who  bargain  for  Books. 

137 


There's  Ruskin  to  keep  one  exclaiming,  "  What  next  ?  " 

There's  Browning  to  puzzle,  and  Gilbert  to  chaff, 
And  "  Marcus  Aurelius"  to  soothe  one  if  vexed, 

And  good  Marcus  Tuainus  to  lend  you  a  laugh  ; 
And  there's  capital    tomes  that  are  filled  with  fly 

hooks, 

And    I've  frequently  found    them   the  best   kind  of 
Books. 

Andrew  Lang. 


138 


MUSIC  AND  PAINTING 


"I  always  loved  music;  whoso  hath  skill  in  this  art,  the 
same  is  of  good  kind,— fitted  for  all  things.  .  .  .  Music  is  a 
fair  gift  of  God,  and  near  allied  to  divinity.  I  would  not  for  a 
great  matter  be  destitute  of  the  small  skill  in  music  which  I 
have.  .  .  . 

"Whoso  condemneth  music,  as  all  seducers  do,  with  them  I 
am  not  content ;  next  unto  Theologia,  I  give  the  place  and 
highest  honour  to  Musica.  For  thereby  all  anger  is  forgotten  ; 
the  devil  is  driven  away  ;  unchastity,  pride,  and  other  blas- 
phemies by  music  are  expelled.  We  also  see  how  David  and 
all  the  saints  brought  their  divine  cogitations  and  contempla- 
tions, their  rhymes  and  songs,  into  verse." 

Martin  Luther. 


In  the  beginning,  man  went  forth  each  day — some  to  do 
battle,  some  to  the  chase ;  others,  again,  to  dig  and  to  delve 
in  the  field — all  that  they  might  gain  and  live,  or  lose  and  die. 
Until  there  was  found  among  them  one,  differing  from  the 
rest,  whose  pursuits  attracted  him  not,  and  so  he  staid  by  the 
tents  with  the  women,  and  traced  strange  devices  with  a  burnt 
stick  upon  a  gourd. 

This  man,  who  took  no  joy  in  the  ways  of  his  brethren — who 
cared  not  for  conquest,  and  fretted  in  the  field — this  designer 
of  quaint  patterns — this  deviser  of  the  beautiful — who  perceived 
in  Nature  about  him  curious  curvings,  as  faces  are  seen  in  the 
fire — this  dreamer  apart,  was  the  first  artist.  .  .  . 

We  have  then  but  to  wait — until,  with  the  mark  of  the  gods 
upon  him — there  come  among  us  again  the  chosen — who  shall 
continue  what  has  gone  before.  Satisfied  that,  even  were  he 
never  to  appear,  the  story  of  the  beautiful  is  already  complete 
— hewn  in  the  marbles  of  the  Parthenon — and  broidered,  with 
the  birds,  upon  the  fan  of  Hokusai — at  the  foot  of  Fusi-yama. 

/.  McNeill  Whistler. 


Wind-Musique         o         •*>         *&         o        •*> 

"1 1  7ITH  my  wife  to  the  King's  House  to  see  "The 
*  *  Virgin  Martyr,"  the  first  time  it  hath  been 
acted  a  great  while :  and  it  is  mighty  pleasant ;  not 
that  the  play  is  worth  much,  but  it  is  finely  acted  by 
Beck  Marshall.  But  that  which  did  please  me  beyond 
anything  in  the  whole  world,  was  the  wind-musique 
when  the  angel  comes  down  ;  which  is  so  sweet  that 
it  ravished  me,  and  indeed,  in  a  word,  did  wrap  up 
my  soul  so  that  it  made  me  really  sick,  just  as  I  have 
formerly  been  when  in  love  with  my  wife  ;  that  neither 
then,  nor  all  the  evening  going  home,  and  at  home, 
I  was  able  to  think  of  anything,  but  remained  all  night 
transported,  so  as  I  could  not  believe  that  ever  any 
musique  hath  that  real  command  over  the  soul  of  a 
man  as  this  did  upon  me  ;  and  makes  me  resolve  to 
practise  wind-musique,  and  to  make  my  wife  do  the  like. 

Samuel  Pefy-s. 

With  a  Guitar  to  Jane        «^        o        -o-        *> 

\  KIEL  to  MIRANDA  :—        Take 
•**•     This  slave  of  Music,  for  the  sake 
Of  him  who  is  the  slave  of  thee, 
And  teach  it  all  the  harmony 
141 


In  which  thou  can'st,  and  only  thou, 
Make  the  delighted  spirit  glow, 
Till  joy  denies  itself  again, 
And,  too  intense,  is  turned  to  pain  ; 
For  by  permission  and  command 
Of  thine  own  Prince  Ferdinand, 
Poor  Ariel  sends  this  silent  token 
Of  more  than  ever  can  be  spoken; 
Your  guardian  spirit,  Ariel,  who, 
From  life  to  life  must  still  pursue 
Your  happiness  ; — for  thus  alone 
Can  Ariel  ever  find  his  own. 
From  Prospero's  enchanted  cell, 
As  the  mighty  verses  tell, 
To  the  throne  of  Naples,  he 
Lit  you  o'er  the  trackless  sea, 
Flitting  on,  your  prow  before, 
Like  a  living  meteor. 
When  you  die,  the  silent  Moon, 
In  her  interlunar  swoon, 
Is  not  sadder  in  her  cell 
Than  deserted  Ariel. 
When  you  live  again  on  earth, 
Like  an  unseen  star  of  birth, 
Ariel  guides  you  o'er  the  sea 
Of  life  from  your  nativity. 
Many  changes  have  been  run 
Since  Ferdinand  and  you  begun 
Your  course  of  love,  and  Ariel  still 
Has  tracked  your  steps  and  served  your  will. 
142 


Now,  in  humbler,  happier  lot, 
This  is  all  remembered  not  ; 
And  now,  alas  !  the  poor  sprite  is 
Imprisoned  for  some  fault  of  his, 
In  a  body  like  a  grave  ; — 
From  you  he  only  dares  to  crave, 
For  his  service  and  his  sorrow, 
A  smile  to-day,  a  song  to-morrow. 


The  artist  who  this  idol  wrought 

To  echo  all  harmonious  thought, 

Felled  a  tree,  while  on  the  steep 

The  woods  were  in  their  winter  sleep, 

Rocked  in  that  repose  divine 

On  the  wind-swept  Apennine  ; 

And  dreaming,  some  of  Autumn  past, 

And  some  of  Spring  approaching  fast 

And  some  of  April  buds  and  showers, 

And  some  of  songs  in  July  bowers, 

And  all  of  love  ;  and  so  this  tree — 

Oh,  that  such  our  death  may  be  ! — 

Died  in  sleep,  and  felt  no  pain, 

To  live  in  happier  form  again  : 

From  which,  beneath  Heaven's  fairest  star, 

The  artist  wrought  the  loved  Guitar  ; 

And  taught  it  justly  to  reply 

To  all  who  question  skilfully, 

in  language  gentle  as  thine  own  ; 

Whispering  in  enamoured  tone 

'43 


Sweet  oracles  of  woods  and  dells, 
And  summer  winds  in  sylvan  cells, 
For  it  had  learnt  all  harmonies 
Of  the  plains  and  of  the  skies, 
Of  the  forests  and  the  mountains, 
And  the  many-voiced  fountains; 
The  clearest  echoes  of  the  hills, 
The  softest  notes  of  falling  rills, 
The  melodies  of  birds  and  bees, 
The  murmuring  of  summer  seas, 
And  pattering  rain,  and  breathing  dew, 
And  airs  of  evening;  and  it  knew 
That  seldom-heard,  mysterious  sound 
Which,  driven  on  its  diurnal  round, 
As  it  floats  through  boundless  day, 
Our  world  enkindles  on  its  way. — 
All  this  it  knows;  but  will  not  tell 
To  those  who  cannot  question  well 
The  Spirit  that  inhabits  it. 
It  talks  according  to  the  wit 
Of  its  companions;  and  no  more 
Is  heard  than  has  been  felt  before, 
By  those  who  tempt  it  to  betray 
These  secrets  of  an  elder  day: 
But  sweetly  as  its  answers  will 
Flatter  hands  of  perfect  skill, 
It  keeps  its  highest,  holiest  tone 
For  our  beloved  Jane  alone. 

Percy  Bysshe  Shelley. 

144 


Even  Tavern-Musicke        o        o        o        o 

"H*  VEN  that  vulgar  and  tavern  -  musick,  which 
•*— *  makes  one  man  merry,  another  mad,  strikes 
in  'me  a  deep  fit  of  devotion,  and  a  profound  con- 
templation of  my  Maker.  There  is  something  in  it 
of  divinity  more  than  the  ear  discovers  :  it  is  an 
hieroglyph ical  and  shadowed  lesson  of  the  whole 
world,  and  creatures  of  God,  such  a  melody  to  the 
ear,  as  the  whole  world,  well  understood,  would  afford 
the  understanding.  In  brief,  it  is  a  sensible  fit  of 
that  harmony  which  intellectually  sounds  in  the  ears 
of  God.  It  unties  the  ligaments  of  my  frame,  takes 
me  to  pieces,  dilates  me  out  of  myself,  and  by  degrees 
methinks  resolves  me  into  heave". 

Sir  Thomas  Browne. 


During  Music          e>         «£>         o         o         *e. 

T)  LAY  on,  play  on  :  we  have  no  need  of  light ; 
*-        Play  on,  play  on  :  why  should  \ve  wish  to  see  ? 
The  notes  fall  softly  ;  softly  falls  the  night, 
And  builds  a  barrier  between  you  and  me. 

Play  on,  play  on  :  let  nothing  break  the  spell  ; 

Play  on,  play  on  :  tired  are  my  eyes  and  brain  ; 
The  music  and  the  darkness  like  them  well, 

And  soothe  their  restlessness  to  rest  again. 


Darkness  and  music  flooding  all  the  room, 
Shadow  and  sound,  a  blinding  and  a  cry  ; 

Nothing  beside  the  music  and  the  gloom  — 
They  are  all,  they  are  life  and  death,  they  are  you 
and  I. 

I  think  the  charm  can  never  change  or  cease, 
I  cannot  tell  how  long  I  have  been  here, 

I  only  know  that  this  is  perfect  peace, 
A  mystic  calm,  a  heaven  in  a  tear. 

I  have  no  longing  for  things  great  and  fair, 
Beauty  and  strength  and  grace  of  word  or  deed, 

For  all  sweet  things  my  soul  has  ceased  to  care, 
Infinite  pity  -  that  is  all  its  need. 

No  hallowed  transport  of  the  heavenly  throng, 
No  happy  echo  from  the  saints'  abode, 

The  voice  of  many  angels  and  their  song, 
The  river  flowing  from  the  feet  of  God  ; 

Only  the  vague  remembrance  of  a  dream, 
Dwelling,  a  plaintive  presence,  in  the  mind, 

Only  the  patient  murmur  of  a  stream, 
Only  a  bird's  cry  borne  upon  the  wind. 

Lights  now  !  the  sound  ebbs,  the  enchantment  flies 

Ah,  it  was  sweet  ;  but  these  are  sweeter  far  — 
The  perfect  innocency  of  your  eyes, 
Your  smile  more  lovely  than  the  first-born  star. 

/.  B.  B.  Nichols. 
146 


Song  -e>        o        o        *o        xc>        « 

~\  T  THEN  whispering  strains  do  softly  steal 

*  *       With  creeping  passion  through  the  heart, 
.And  when  at  every  touch  \ve  feel 
Our  pulses  beat,  and  bear  a  part ; 
When  threads  can  make 
A  heart-string  quake  ;  — 
Philosophy 
Can  scarce  deny, 
The  soul  consists  of  harmony. 

Oh,  lull  me,  lull  me,  charming  air, 

My  senses  rock'd  with  wonder  sweet ! 
Like  snow  on  wool  thy  fallings  are 
Soft  like  a  spirit  are  thy  feet. 
Grief  who  need  fear 
That  hath  an  ear  ? 
Down  let  him  lie, 
And  slumbering  die, 
And  change  his  soul  for  harmony. 

William  Strode. 


At  a  Solemn  Music 


T)  LEST  pair  of  Sirens,  pledges  of  Heaven's  joy, 
-^     Sphere-born  harmonious  Sistejs,  Voice  and 

Verse  ! 
Wed  your  divine  sounds,  and  mixt  power  employ, 


Dead  things  with  inbreathed  sense  able  to  pierce, 
And  to  our  high-raised  phantasy  present 
That  undisturbed  Song  of  pure  concent 
Aye  sung  before  the  sapphire-colour'd  throne 

To  Him  that  sits  thereon, 
With  saintly  shout  and  solemn  jubilee  ; 
Where  the  bright  Seraphim  in  burning  row 
Their  loud  uplifted  angel-trumpets  blow  ; 
And  the  Cherubic  host  in  thousand  quires 
Touch  their  immortal  harps  of  golden  wires, 
With  those  just  Spirits  that  wear  victorious  palms. 

Hymns  devout  and  holy  psalms 

Singing  everlastingly  : 
That  we  on  earth,  with  undiscording  voice 
May  rightly  answer  that  melodious  noise  ; 
As  once  we  did,  till  disproportion'd  sin 
Jarr'd  against  nature's  chime,  and  with  harsh  din 
Broke  the  fair  music  that  all  creatures  made 
To  their  great  Lord,  whose  love  their  motion  swa/d 
In  perfect  diapason,  whilst  they  stood 
In  first  obedience,  and  their  state  of  good. 
O  may  we  soon  again  renew  that  Song, 
And  keep  in  tune  with  Heaven,  till  God  ere  long 
To  his  celestial  concert  us  unite, 
To  live  with  him,  and  sing  in  endless  morn  of  light ! 

John  Milton. 


148 


Miss  Linley  o         o         o         •<?•         o 

T  T  ER  exquisite  and  delicate  loveliness,  all  the 
•*•  -*•  more  fascinating  for  the  tender  sadness  which 
seemed,  as  a  contemporary  describes  it,  to  project 
over  her  the  shadow  of  early  death  ;  her  sweet  voice, 
and  the  pathetic  expression  of  her  singing,  the  'timid 
and  touching  grace  of  her  air  and  deportment,  had 
won  universal  admiration  for  Eliza  Ann  Linley.  From 
the  days  when,  a  girl  of  nine,  she  stood  with  her 
little  basket  at  the  pump-room  door,  timidly  offering 
the  tickets  for  her  father's  benefit  concerts,  to  those 
when,  in  her  teens,  she  was  the  belle  of  the  Bath 
assemblies,  none  could  resist  her  beseeching  grace. 
Lovers  and  wooers  flocked  about  her  ;  Richard  Walter 
Long,  the  Wiltshire  miser,  laid  his  thousands  at  her 
feet.  Even  Foote,  when  he  took  the  story  of  Miss 
Linley's  rejection  of  that  sordid  old  hunks  as  the 
subject  of  his  Maid  at  Bath,  in  1770,  laid  no  stain 
of  his  satirical  brush  on  her.  Nor  had  she  resisted 
only  the  temptation  of  money :  coronets  it  was 
whispered  had  been  laid  at  her  feet  as  well  as  money. 
Wrhen  she  appeared  at  the  Oxford  Oratorios,  grave 
dons  and  young  gentlemen  commoners  were  alike 
subdued.  In  London,  where  she  sang  at  Covent 
Garden,  in  the  Lent  of  1773,  the  King  himself  is  said 
to  have  been  as  much  fascinated  by  her  eyes  and 
voice  as  by  the  music  of  his  favourite  Handel. 

C.  R.  Leslie. 


Beethoven  and  Mozart        o         <r         o        •&* 

I  HAVE  nothing  new  to  tell  you  of  Music.  The 
Operas  were  the  same  old  affair ;  Linda  di 
Chamouni,  the  Pirata,  etc.  Grisi  coarse,  .  .  .  only 
Lablache  great.  There  is  one  singer  also,  Brambelli, 
who,  -with  a  few  husky  notes,  carries  one  back  to 
the  days  of  Pasta.  I  did  not  hear  Le  Desert ;  but 
I  fancy  the  English  came  to  a  fair  judgment  about 
it.  That  is,  they  did  not  want  to  hear  it  more  than 
once.  It  was  played  many  times,  for  new  batches  of 
people  ;  but  I  doubt  if  any  one  went  twice.  So  it  is 
v/ith  nearly  all  French  things  ;  there  is  a  clever  showy 
surface ;  but  no  Holy  of  Holies  far  withdrawn  ; 
conceived  in  the  depth  of  a  mind,  and  only  to  be 
received  into  the  depth  of  ours  after  much  attention. 
Poussin  must  spend  his  life  in  Italy  before  he  could 
paint  as  he  did  ;  and  what  other  Great  Man,  out  of 
the  exact  Sciences,  have  they  to  show  ?  This  you 
will  call  impudence.  Now  Beethoven,  you  see  by 
your  own  experience,  has  a  depth  not  to  be  reached 
all  at  once.  I  admit  with  you  that  he  is  too  bizarre, 
and,  I  think,  morbid.  But  he  is  original,  majestic, 
and  profound.  Such  music  thinks ;  so  it  is  with 
Gluck ;  and  with  Mendelssohn.  As  to  Mozart,  he 
was,  as  a  musical  Genius,  more  wonderful  than  all. 
I  was  astonished  at  the  Don  Giovanni  lately.  It  is 
certainly  the  Greatest  Opera  in  the  world.  I  went 
to  no  concert,  and  am  now  sorry  I  did  not. 

Edward  FitzGerald  (to  F.  Tennyson). 

150 


Bach's  Organ  Works,  Vol.  v.  No.  27         o         o 

/^*HANCE-CH  I LD  of  some  lone  sorrow  on  the  hills, 

^^     Bach  finds  a  babe  ;  instant  the  great  heart  fills 

With  love  of  that  fair  innocence, 

Conveys  it  thence, 

Clothes  it  with  all  divinest  harmonies, 

Gives  it  sure  foot  to  tread  the  dim  degrees 

Of    Pilate's    stair.      Hush  !     hush  !      Its    last    sweet 

breath 
Wails  far  along  the  passages  of  death. 

T.  E.  Brown. 


The  Little  Flower-Pot         «£>        o        o        o 

r  I  *O  Loton  the  landscape-drawer,  a  Dutchman,  living 
•*•  in  St.  James's  Market  ;  but  there  saw  no  good 
pictures.  But  by  accident  he  did  direct  us  to  a 
painter  that  was  then  in  the  house  with  him,  a  Dutch- 
man, newly  come  over,  one  Evereest,  who  took  us  to 
his  lodging  close  by,  and  did  show  us  a  little  flower- 
pot of  his. drawing,  the  finest  thing  that  ever,  I  think, 
I  saw  in  my  life  ;  the  drops  of  dew  hanging  on  the 
leaves,  so  as  I  was  forced  again  and  again  to  put  my 
finger  to  it,  to  feel  whether  my  eyes  were  deceived  or 
no.  He  do  ask  7o/.  for  it  :  I  had  the  vanity  to  bid 
him  2o/.  But  a  better  picture  I  never  saw  in  my 
whole  life  ;  and  it  is  worth  going  twenty  miles  to  see 


it.  Thence,  leaving  Baity  there,  I  took  my  wife  to 
St.  James's,  and  there  carried  her  to  the  Queene's 
chapel,  the  first  time  I  ever  did  it ;  and  heard  ex- 
cellent musick,  but  not  so  good  as  by  accident  I 
did  hear  there  yesterday  as  I  went  through  the 
Park  from  White  Hall  to  see  Sir  W.  Coventry, 
which  1  have  forgot  to  set  down  in  my  Journal 

yesterday. 

Samuel  Pepys. 


James  Elia,  Connoisseur    o         •&•         *o-         o 

T  T  does  me  good,  as  I  walk  towards  the  street  of 
•*•  my  daily  avocation,  on  some  fine  May  morning, 
to  meet  him  marching  in  a  quite  opposite  direction, 
with  a  jolly  handsome  presence,  and  shining  sanguine 
face,  that  indicates  some  purchase  in  his  eye— a  Claude 
— or  a  Hobbima — for  much  of  his  enviable  leisure  is 
consumed  at  Christie's,  and  Phillips's — or  where  not, 
to  pick  up  pictures,  and  such  gauds.  On  these 
occasions  he  mostly  stoppeth  me,  to  read  a  short 
lecture  on  the  advantage  a  person  like  me  possesses 
above  himself,  in  having  his  time  occupied  with 
business  which  he  must  do — assureth  me  that  he 
often  feels  it  hang  heavy  on  his  hands — wishes  he 
had  fewer  holidays — and  goes  off — Westward  Ho  ! — 
chanting  a  tune  to  Pall  Mall — perfectly  convinced 
that  he  has  convinced  me — while  I  proceed  in  my 
opposite  direction  tuneless. 

152 


It  is  pleasant  again  to  see  this  Professor  of  In- 
difference doing  the  honours  of  his  new  purchase, 
when  he  has  fairly  housed  it.  You  must  view  it  in 
every  light,  till  he  has  found  the  best — placing  it  at 
this  distance,  and  at  that,  but  always  suiting  the  focus 
of  your  sight  to  his  own.  You  must  spy  at  it  through 
your  fingers,  to  catch  the  aerial  perspective— though 
you  assure  him  that  to  you  the  landscape  shows  much 
more  agreeable  without  that  artifice.  Woe  be  to  the 
luckless  wight,  who  does  not  only  not  respond  to  his 
rapture,  but  who  should  drop  an  unseasonable  in- 
timation of  preferring  one  of  his  anterior  bargains  to 
the  present ! — The  last  is  always  his  best  hit — his 
"  Cynthia  of  the  minute." — Alas  !  how  many  a  mild 
Madonna  have  I  known  to  come  in — a  Raphael ! — keep 
its  ascendency  for  a  few  brief  moons — then,  after 
certain  intermedial  degradations,  from  the  front 
drawing-room  to  the  back  gallery,  thence  to  the  dark 
parlour, — adopted  in  turn  by  each  of  the  Carracci, 
under  successive  lowering  ascriptions  of  filiation, 
mildly  breaking  its  fall — consigned  to  the  oblivious 
lumber-room,  go  out  at  last  a  Lucca  Giordano,  or 
plain  Carlo  Maratti  1 

Charles  Lamb. 


'53 


A  Portrait    «£>         o         o         o         -o         o 

TV  /T  Y  Infelice's  face,  her  brow,  her  eye, 

*•**     The  dimple  on  her  cheek  ;  and  such  sweet 

skill 

Hath  from  the  cunning  workman's  pencil  flown, 
These  lips  look  fresh  and  lovely  as  her  own. 
False  colours  last  after  the  true  be  dead. 
Of  all  the  roses  grafted  on  her  cheeks, 
Of  all  the  graces  dancing  in  her  eyes, 
Of  all  the  music  set  upon  her  tongue, 
Of  all  that  was  past  woman's  excellence 
In  her  white  bosom  ;  look,  a  painted  board 

Circumscribes  all ! 

Thomas  Dekker. 


Portraits      o        o        o        o        o        •& 

1"  AM  all  for  a  little  Flattery  in  Portraits  :  that  is,  so 
•*•  far  as,  I  think,  the  Painter  or  Sculptor  should  try 
at  something  more  agreeable  than  anything  he  sees 
sitting  to  him  :  when  People  look  either  bored,  or 
smirking  :  he  should  give  the  best  possible  Aspect 
which  the  Features  before  him  might  wear,  even  if  the 
Artist  had  not  seen  that  Aspect.  Especially  when  he 
works  for  Friends  or  Kinsfolk  :  for  even  the  plainest 
face  has  looked  handsome  to  them  at  some  happy 
moment,  and  just  such  we  like  to  have  perpetuated. 
Edward  FitzGerald  (to  W.  H.  Thompson). 
r54 


Sir  Joshua  o         o         o         o         o         o 

IR  JOSHUA  must  have  had  a  fine  time  of  it  with 
his  sitters.  Lords,  ladies,  generals,  authors, 
opera-singers,  musicians,  the  learned  and  the  polite, 
besieged  his  doors,  and  found  an  unfailing  welcome. 
What  a  rustling  of  silks !  What  a  fluttering  of 
flounces  and  brocades  !  What  a  cloud  of  powder 
and  perfumes  !  What  a  flow  of  periwigs  !  What 
an  exchange  of  civilities  and  of  titles  !  What  a 
recognition  of  old  friendships,  and  an  introduction  of 
new  acquaintance  and  sitters  !  It  must,  I  think,  be 
allowed  that  this  is  the  only  mode  in  which  genius 
can  form  a  legitimate  union  with  wealth  and  fashion. 
There  is  a  secret  and  sufficient  tie  in  interest  and 
vanity.  Abstract  topics  of  wit  or  learning  do  not 
furnish  a  connecting  link  :  but  the  painter,  the 
sculptor,  come  in  close  contact  with  the  persons  of 
the  Great.  The  lady  of  quality,  the  courtier,  and  the 
artist,  meet  and  shake  hands  on  this  common 
ground  ;  the  latter  exercises  a  sort  of  natural  juris- 
diction and  dictatorial  power  over  the  pretensioi  s  of 
the  first  to  external  beauty  and  accomplishment, 
which  produces  a  mild  sense  and  tone  of  equality  ; 
and  the  opulent  sitter  pays  the  taker  of  flattering 
likenesses  handsomely  for  his  trouble,  which  does 
not  lessen  the  sympathy  between  them.  There  is 
even  a  satisfaction  in  paying  down  a  high  price  for 
a  picture— it  seems  as  if  one's  head  was  worth 
something  !  —  During  the  first  sitting,  Sir  Joshua 

'55 


did  little  but  chat  with  the  new  candidate  for  the 
fame  of  portraiture,  try  an  attitude,  or  remark  an 
expression.  His  object  was  to  gain  time,  by  not 
being  in  haste  to  commit  himself,  until  he  was  master 
of  the  subject  before  him.  No  one  ever  dropped  in 
but  the  friends  and  acquaintance  of  the  sitter — it  was 
a  rule  with  Sir  Joshua  that  from  the  moment  the 
latter  entered,  he  was  at  home — the  room  belonged 
to  him — but  what  secret  whisperings  would  there  be 
among  these,  what  confidential,  inaudible  communica- 
tions !  It  must  be  a  refreshing  moment,  when  the 
cake  and  wine  had  been  handed  round,  and  the 
artist  began  again.  He,  as  it  were,  by  this  act  of 
hospitality  assumed  a  new  character,  and  acquired  a 
double  claim  to  confidence  and  respect.  In  the 
meantime,  the  sitter  would  perhaps  glance  his  eye 
round  the  room,  and  see  a  Titian  or  a  Vandyke 
hanging  in  one  corner,  with  a  transient  feeling  of 
scepticism  whether  he  should  make  such  a  picture. 
How  the  ladies  of  quality  and  fashion  must  bless 
themselves  from  being  made  to  look  like  Dr.  Johnson 
or  Goldsmith  !  How  proud  the  first  of  these  would 
be,  how  happy  the  last,  to  fill  the  same  armchair 
where  the  Burnburys  and  the  Hornecks  had  sat  ! 
How  superior  the  painter  would  feel  to  them  all  ! 
By  "happy  alchemy  of  mind,"  he  brought  out  all 
their  good  qualities  and  reconciled  their  defects,  gave 
an  air  of  studious  ease  to  his  learned  friends,  or 
lighted  up  the  face  of  folly  and  fashion  with  intelli- 
gence and  graceful  smiles.  Those  portraits,  however, 


that  were  most  admired  at  the  time,  do  not  retain 
their  pre-eminence  now  :  the  thought  remains  upon 
the  brow,  while  the  colour  has  faded  from  the  cheek, 
or  the  dress  grown  obsolete ;  and  after  all,  Sir 
Joshua's  best  pictures  are  those  of  his  worst  sitters — 
his  children.  They  suited  best  with  his  unfinished 
style  ;  and  are  like  the  infancy  of  the  art  itself — happy, 
bold,  and  careless.  Sir  Joshua  formed  the  circle  of 
his  private  friends  from  the  Mite  of  his  sitters ; 
and  Vandyke  was,  it  appears,  on  the  same  footing 
with  his.  When  any  of  those  noble  or  distinguished 
persons  whom  he  has  immortalised  with  his  pencil, 
were  sitting  to  him,  he  used  to  ask  them  to  dinner, 
and  afterwards  it  was  their  custom  to  return  to 
the  picture  again,  so  that  it  is  said  that  many 
of  his  finest  portraits  were  done  in  this  manner, 
ere  the  colours  were  yet  dry,  in  the  course  of 
a  single  day.  Oh !  ephemeral  works  to  last  for 
ever! 

W.  Hazlitt. 


Rubens        o        o        -o        *o        o        «*> 

"\1  7"ITH  what  astonishing  rapidity  he  travels  over 
•  *  his  canvas  ;  how  tellingly  the  cool  lights  and 
warm  shadows  are  made  to  contrast  and  relieve  each 
other  ;  how  that  blazing  blowsy  penitent  in  yellow 
satin  and  glittering  hair  carries  down  the  stream  of 

J57 


light  across  the  picture  !  This  is  the  way  to  work, 
my  boys,  and  earn  a  hundred  florins  a  day.  See  !  I 
am  as  sure  of  my  line  as  a  skater  of  making  his 
figure  of  eight !  and  down  with  a  sweep  goes  a 
brawny  arm  or  a  flowing  curl  of  drapery.  The 
figures  arrange  themselves  as  if  by  magic.  The 
paint-pots  are  exhausted  in  furnishing  brown  shadows. 
The  pupils  look  wondering  on,  as  the  master  careers 
over  the  canvas.  Isabel  or  Helena,  wife  No.  i  or 
No.  2,  are  sitting  by,  buxom,  exuberant,  ready  to  be 
painted  ;  and  the  children  are  boxing  in  the  corner, 
waiting  till  they  are  wanted  to  figure  as  cherubs  in  the 
picture.  Grave  burghers  and  gentlefolks  come  in  on 
a  visit.  There  are  oysters  and  Rhenish  always  ready 
on  yonder  table.  Was  there  ever  such  a  painter? 
He  has  been  an  ambassador,  an  actual  Excellency, 
and  what  better  man  could  be  chosen  ?  He  speaks 
all  the  languages.  He  earns  a  hundred  florins  a  day. 
Prodigious  !  Thirty-six  thousand  five  hundred  florins 
a  year.  Enormous  !  He  rides  out  to  his  castle  with 
a  score  of  gentlemen  after  him,  like  the  Governor. 
That  is  his  own  portrait  as  Saint  George.  You  know 
he  is  an  English  knight?  Those  are  his  two  wives 
as  the  two  Maries.  He  chooses  the  handsomest 
wives.  He  rides  the  handsomest  horses.  He  paints 
the  handsomest  pictures.  He  gets  the  handsomest 
prices  for  them.  That  slim  young  Van  Dyck,  who 
was  his  pupil,  has  genius  too,  and  is  painting  all  the 
noble  ladies  in  England,  and  turning  the  heads  of 
some  of  them.  And  Jordaens — what  a  droll  dog 

158 


and  clever  fellow !  Have  you  seen  his  fat  Silenus  ? 
The  master  himself  could  not  paint  better.  And  his 
altar-piece  at  Saint  Bavon's?  He  can  paint  you 
anything,  that  Jordaens  can — a  drunken  jollification  of 
boors  and  doxies,  or  a  martyr  howling  with  half  his 
skin  off.  What  a  knowledge  of  anatomy  !  But 
there  is  nothing  like  the  master— nothing.  He  can 
paint  you  his  thirty -six  thousand  five  hundred 
florins'  worth  a  year.  Have  you  heard  of  what  he 
has  done  for  the  French  Court  ?  Prodigious ! 
I  can't  look  at  Rubens's  pictures  without  fancying 
I  see  that  handsome  figure  swaggering  before 
the  canvas. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


Thomson  and  the  Painters 


'S  was  such  a  shop,  if  shop  it  might 
-*•  be  called,  that  roof  had  none,  saving  the  common 
roof  of  the  Old  Exchange.  Yet  the  inclined  plane  in 
front,  'twas  like  a  stall,  on  which  he  exposed  his 
various  stock  in  trade,  together  with  the  shelves,  was 
so  arranged,  that  it  was  only  a  little  platform  within, 
whereon  was  placed  his  desk,  you  could  see  the  idlers 
who  stood  in  front,  turning  over  his  quires  of  music, 
or  peeping  at  the  pictured  books,  of  which  he  usually 
had  exposed  a  few  for  show.  Within  were  rows  of 
shelves,  with  nooks  and  crannies  stuffed  with  old  plays, 

159 


rare  pamphlets,  and  other  literary  printed  relics,  which 
he  scarcely  sought  to  dispose  of,  being  himself  a  man 
of  reading.  He  knew  more  chit-chat  anecdote  of 
composers  and  musicians,  than  any  of  his  fraternity, 
and  was  a  host  of  information  to  the  venerable  Burney, 
and  furnished  Sir  John  Hawkins  with  many  rich 
materials  for  his  History  of  Music.  He  had  an  end- 
less fund  of  lively  stories  of  Bird,  Kent,  Harrington, 
Purcell,  Croft,  and  his  old  master  Boyce ;  and  a 
catalogue  of  others,  replete  with  humour  ;  and  it  was 
said  that  there  was  not  an  air  from  the  time  of  Queen 
Elizabeth,  that  he  could  not  play,  or  hum,  immediately 
on  its  being  named.  His  singing  was  highly  amusing  ; 
for  although,  when  a  boy,  in  the  Chapel-Royal,  he 
possessed  an  exquisite  treble,  yet  when  his  voice 
broke  it  changed  to  a  nasal  squeaking,  which  con- 
tinued to  the  last.  Arne  used  to  call  him  the  Reed- 
bird,  not  from  his  resemblance  to  that  native  warbler 
of  the  mill-stream,  but  from  the  similitude  of  his 
snuffling  note  to  the  reed  of  the  clarionet,  applied 
singly  to  the  upper  member  of  that  powerful  instru- 
ment. 

Richard  Wilson  and  Willy  Thomson  were  great 
cronies.  The  cheerful  musicseller  was  not  much 
hurried,  as  Frank  Hayman  was  wont  to  say  of  many 
ingenious  wights  in  his  day,  whose  talents  were 
neglected,  or  who,  in  short,  had  little  business.  Hence 
his  fireside  was  a  solace  to  the  misanthrope  painter, 
than  whom  no  mortal  of  his  transcendent  talent  had 
ever  greater  cause  to  complain.  Perhaps  it  is  injustice 
1 60 


to  his  memory  to  write  him  down  misanthrope  ;  cer- 
tainly he  became  a  cynic — and  who  but  must  lament 
the  cause  ! 

Marlowe  had  heard  Sir  Joshua  Reynolds  speak  of 
the  picturesque  effect  of  the  Strand,  as  it  burst  upon 
him  early  one  morning  as  he  came  through  Exeter 
'Change  Gate,  on  his  way  to  the  Royal  Academy  in 
the  Strand.  The  sun,  then  due  east,  held  the  new 
church  in  a  mass  of  rich  grey,  and  the  morning  beam 
shed  its  rays  with  Rubens-like  splendour  on  each  side, 
glancing  obliquely  on  the  projections  of  old  Somerset 
House,  and  upon  the  plastered  gables  of  the  old- 
fashioned  houses  that  stood  out  of  the  parallel  of  the 
street.  Reynolds,  though  a  painter  of  portraits,  was 
a  great  observer  of  these  incidental  bursts  of  light ; 
hence  his  backgrounds  are  ofttimes  worthy  the  mind 
of  Titian.  Reynolds'  description  of  the  scene  deter- 
mined,, Marlowe  to  make  a  study  on  the  spot ;  and, 
waiting  for  a  promising  morn,  he  rose  early,  and 
roused  Wilson  on  his  way,  who  reluctantly  followed, 
murmuring  as  he  went,  "  O  !  Sir  Joshua  proclaims  it 
fine !  Come,  troop  on,  Marlowe,  or  the  evanescent 
splendour  of  your  scene  will  fade  away,  and  leave  you 
to  guess  at  another  of  his  experimental  visions."  This 
sarcastic  reflection  was  a  hit  at  the  fading,  and  sudden 
loss  of  splendor,  of  some  of  that  great  portrait  painter's 
best  works.  Wilson,  in  his  sour  mood,  usually  wielded 
a  two-edged  sword.  Marlowe  at  this  period  was 
aiming  at  a  meretricious  style  of  effect,  regardless  of 
his  future  fame. 

L  I'M 


It  was  my  good  fortune  that  morning  to  bend  my 
early  walk  to  Convent  Garden,  where  I  still  am  wont 
to  lounge  in  summer,  to  enjoy  the  cheerful  scene  of 
high  market,  long  before  the  sluggard  is  awake,  and 
delight  my  eyes  with  the  vast  display  of  fruits  and 
vegetables,  fresh  in  their  bloom  from  the  adjacent 
country.  There  may  the  melancholic  see  smiling 
industry  counting  her  wealth,  and  the  murmurer  learn 
a  lesson  of  thankfulness  to  the  Giver  of  all  Good,  for 
converting  our  once  sterile  soil  into  the  garden  of  the 
world  !  Would  that  our  worthy  metropolitans  led 
their  children  once  a  year  at  least,  at  early  day,  to 
view  this  mighty  store  of  kind  nature's  choicest  gifts  ! 
In  the  midst  of  the  bustling  scene,  I  met  the  worthy 
painters,  and  was  readily  tempted  to  accompany  them 
upon  their  interesting  expedition.  "There,"  said 
Wilson,  pointing  to  the  bulk  before  an  herb-shop, 
"there  sat  poor  Hogarth,  when  he  sketched  his 
'  Morning ' :  the  little  urchins,  with  satchels  on  their 
backs,  were  two  of  old  John  Dick's  boys,  creeping  like 
snails  unwillingly  to  school." 

W.  H.  Pyne.     ("  Wine  and  Walnuts?} 


162 


THE  PLAY 


I  am  aware  that  many  of  my  readers  may  censure  my  want  of 
taste.  Let  me,  however,  shelter  myself  under  the  authority  of 
a  very  fashionable  baronet  in  the  brilliant  world,  who,  on  his 
attention  being  called  to  the  fragrance  of  a  May  evening  in  the 
country,  observed,  "This  may  be  very  well ;  but  for  my  part  I 
prefer  the  smell  of  a  flambeau  at  the  playhouse. " 

James  Boswell. 

But  when  we  got  in,  and  I  beheld  the  green  curtain  that  veiled 
a  heaven  to  my  imagination,  which  was  soon  to  be  disclosed 
— the  breathless  anticipations  I  endured !  I  had  seen  some- 
thing like  it  in  the  plate  prefixed  to  Troilus  and  Cressida,  in 
Rowe's  Shakespeare — the  tent  scene  with  Diomede — and  a 
sight  of  that  plate  can  always  bring  back  in  a  measure  the 
feeling  of  that  evening. — The  boxes  at  that  time,  full  of  well- 
dressed  women  of  quality,  projected  over  the  pit ;  and  the 
pilasters  reaching  down  were  adorned  with  a  glistering  sub- 
stance (I  Know  not  what)  under  glass  (as  it  seemed),  resembling 
— a  homely  fancy — but  I  judged  it  to  be  sugar-candy — yet,  to 
my  raised  imagination,  divested  of  its  homelier  qualities,  it 
appeared  a  glorified  candy ! — the  orchestra  lights  at  length 
arose,  those  "  fair  Auroras ! "  Once  the  bell  sounded.  It  was 
to  ring  out  yet  once  again — and,  incapable  of  the  anticipation, 
I  reposed  my  shut  eyes  in  a  sort  of  resignation  upon  the 
n?aternal  lap.  It  rang  the  second  time.  The  curtain  drew  up. 

Charles  Lamb. 


An  Epitaph  on  Salathiel  Pavy,  a  Child  of  Queen 
Elizabeth's  Chapel      o        o        o        «s> 

\  T  7EEP  with  me,  all  you  that  read 

*  *       This  little  story  ; 
And  know,  for  whom  a  tear  you  shed 

Death's  self  is  sorry. 
It  was  a  child  that  so  did  thrive 

In  grace  and  feature, 
As  Heaven  and  Nature  seem'd  to  strive 

Which  own'd  the  creature. 
Years  he  number'd  scarce  thirteen, 

When  fates  turn'd  cruel, 
Yet  three  fill'd  zodiacs  had  he  been 

The  stage's  jewel ; 
And  did  act  (what  now  we  moan) 

Old  men  so  duly, 
As,  sooth,  the  Parcae  thought  him  one — 

lie  play'd  so  truly. 
So,  by  error  to  his  fate 

They  all  consented, 
But  viewing  him  since,  alas,  too  late  1 

They  have  repented  ; 
165 


And  have  sought,  to  give  new  birth, 

In  baths  to  steep  him  ; 
But  being  much  too  good  for  earth, 

Heaven  vows  to  keep  him. 

Benjonson. 


An  Excellent  Actor  <?•         •£>         o         o 

"II  7HATSOEVER  is  commendable  to  the  grave 
*  •  orator  is  most  exquisitely  perfect  in  him,  for 
by  a  full  and  significant  action  of  body  he  charms  our 
attention.  Sit  in  a  full  theatre  and  you  will  think  you 
see  so  many  lines  drawn  from  the  circumference  of 
so  many  ears,  while  the  actor  is  the  centre.  He  doth 
not  strive  to  make  nature  monstrous  ;  she  is  often  seen 
in  the  same  scene  with  him,  but  neither  on  stilts  nor 
crutches  ;  and  for  his  voice,  'tis  not  lower  than  the 
prompter,  nor  louder  than  the  foil  or  target.  By  his 
action  he  fortifies  moral  precepts  with  examples,  for 
what  we  see  him  personate  we  think  truly  done  before 
us  :  a  man  of  a  deep  thought  might  apprehend  the 
ghost  of  our  ancient  heroes  walked  again,  and  take 
him  at  several  times  for  many  of  them.  He  is  much 
affected  to  painting,  and  tis  a  question  whether  that 
make  him  an  excellent  player,  or  his  playing  an 
exquisite  painter.  He  adds  grace  to  the  poet's 
labours,  for  what  in  the  poet  is  but  ditty,  in  him  is 
both  ditty  and  music.  He  entertains  us  in  the  best 
leisure  of  our  life — that  is,  between  meals  ;  the  most 
166 


unfit  time  for  study  or  bodily  exercise.  The  flight 
of  hawks  and  chase  of  wild  beasts,  either  of  them  are 
delights  noble;  but  some  think  this  sport  of  men  the 
worthier,  despite  all  calumny.  All  men  have  been  of 
his  occupation;  and  indeed,  what  he  doth  fefgnedly, 
that  do  others  essentially  This  day  one  plays  a 
monarch,  the  next  a  private  person;  here  one  acts 
a  tyrant,  on  the  morrow  an  exile;  a  parasite  this  man 
to  night,  to  morrow  a  precisian;  and  so  of  divers 
others.  I  observe,  of  all  men  living,  a  worthy  actor 
in  one  kind  is  the  strongest  motive  of  affection  that 
can  be;  for,  when  he  dies,  we  cannot  be  persuaded 
any  man  can  do  his  parts  like  him.  But,  to  conclude, 
I  value  a  worthy  actor  by  the  corruption  of  some  few 
of  the  quality  as  I  would  do  gold  in  the  ore — I  should 
not  mind  the  dross,  but  the  purity  of  the  metal. 

Sir  Thomas  Overbury. 


NTcll  Gwynn  o         o         o         *sr         o 

\  FTER  dinner  with  my  wife  to  the  King's  house  to 

see    "The    Mayden    Queene,"    a    new    play   of 

Dryden's,  mightily  commended  for  the  regularity  of  it, 

and  the  strain  and   wit:    and  the  truth  is,  there  is  a 

comical  part  done  by  .\\-ll,  which  is  Florimell,  that  I 

never  can  hope  ever  to  see  the  like  done  again  by  man 

or  woman      The  King  and  Duke  of  York  were  at  the 

play.     But  so  great  performance  of  a  comical  part  was 

never,  I  believe,  in  the  world  before  as  Nell  do  this, 

167 


both  as  a  mad  girle,  then  most  and  best  of  all  when 
she  comes  in  like  a  young  gallant;  and  hath  the 
motions  and  carriage  of  a  spark  the  most  that  ever  I 
saw  any  man  have.  It  makes  me,  I  confess,  admire  her. 

Samuel  Pepys. 


Mrs.  Mountfort         o        o        o         o         o 

MRS.  Mountfort  .  .  .  was  mistress  of  more  variety 
of  humour  than  I  ever  knew  in  any  one  woman 
actress.  This  variety,  too,  was  attended  with  an  equal 
vivacity,  which  made  her  excellent  in  characters  ex- 
tremely different.  As  she  was  naturally  a  pleasant 
mimic,  she  had  the  skill  to  make  that  talent  useful  on 
the  stage,  a  talent  which  may  be  surprising  in  a 
conversation,  and  yet  be  lost  when  brought  to  the 
theatre,  which  was  the  case  of  Estcourt  already 
mentioned;  but  where  the  elocution  is  round, 
distinct,  voluble,  and  various,  as  Mrs.  Mountfort's 
was,  the  mimic,  there,  is  a  great  assistant  to  the  actor. 
Nothing,  though  ever  so  barren,  if  within  the  bounds 
of  nature,  could  be  flat  in  her  hands.  She  gave  many 
heightening  touches  to  characters  but  coldly  written, 
and  often  made  an  author  vain  of  his  work,  that  in 
itself  had  but  little  merit.  She  was  so  fond  of 
humour,  in  what  low  part  soever  to  be  found,  that 
she  would  make  no  scruple  of  defacing  her  fair  form, 
to  come  heartily  into  it;  for  when  she  was  eminent  in 
desirable  characters  of  wit  and  humour,  in  higher  life, 
1 68 


she  would  be  in  as  much  fancy,  when  descending  into 
the  antiquated  Abigail  of  Fletcher,  as  when  triumph- 
ing in  all  the  airs,  and  vain  graces,  of  a  fine  /ady  ;  a 
merit,  that  few  actresses  care  for.  In  a  play  of 
D'Urfey's,  now  forgotten,  called  the  "  Western  Lass," 
which  part  she  acted,  she  transformed  her  whole 
being,  body,  shape,  voice,  language,  look,  and 
features,  into  almost  another  animal  ;  with  a  strong 
Devonshire  dialect,  a  broad  laughing  voice,  a  poking 
head,  round  shoulders,  an  unconceiving  eye,  and  the 
most  bedizening,  dowdy  dress,  that  ever  covered  the 
untrained  limbs  of  a  Joan  Trot.  To  have  seen  her 
here,  you  would  have  thought  it  impossible  the  same 
creature  could  ever  have  been  recovered  to  what  was 
as  easy  to  her,  the  gay,  the  lively,  and  the  desirable. 
Nor  was  her  humour  limited  to  her  sex  ;  for,  while  her 
shape  permitted,  she  was  a  more  adroit  pretty  fellow 
than  is  usually  seen  upon  the  stage  :  her  easy  air,  action, 
mien,  and  gesture,  quite  changed  from  the  quoif,  to  the 
cocked  hat,  and  cavalier  in  fashion.  People  were  so 
fond  of  seeing  her  a  man,  that  when  the  part  of  Bays 
in  the  "  Rehearsal,"  had,  for  some  time,  lain  dormant, 
she  was  desired  to  take  it  up,  which  I  have  seen  her 
act  with  all  the  true  coxccmbly  spirit  and  humour,  that 
the  sufficiency  of  the  character  required. 

But  what  found  most  employment  for  her  whole 
various  excellence  at  once,  was  the  part  of  Melantha, 
in  "  Marriage — Alamode."  Melantha  is  as  finished 
an  impertinent  as  ever  fluttered  in  a  drawing-room, 
and  seems  to  contain  the  most  complete  system  of 
169 


female  foppery,  that  could  possibly  be  crowded  into 
the  tortured  form  of  a  fine  lady.  Her  language,  dress, 
motion,  manners,  soul,  and  body,  are  in  a  continual 
hurry  to  be  something  more  than  is  necessary  or 
commendable.  And  though  I  doubt  it  will  be  a  vain 
labour,  to  offer  you  a  just  likeness  of  Mrs.  Mountfort's 
action,  yet  the  fantastic  impression  is  still  so  strong  in 
my  memory,  that  I  cannot  help  saying  something, 
though  fantastically,  about  it.  The  first  ridiculous 
airs  that  break  from  her,  are,  upon  a  gallant,  never 
seen  before,  who  delivers  her  a  letter  from  her  father, 
recommending  him  to  her  good  graces,  as  an  honour- 
able lover.  Here,  now,  one  would  think  she  might 
naturally  show  a  little  of  the  sex's  decent  reserve, 
though  never  so  slightly  covered.  No,  sir ;  not  a 
tittle  of  it ;  modesty  is  the  virtue  of  a  poor-souled 
country  gentlewoman  ;  she  is  too  much  a  court  lady. 
to  be  under  so  vulgar  a  confusion  ;  she  reads  the 
letter,  therefore,  with  a  careless,  dropping  lip,  and  an 
erected  brow,  humming  it  hastily  over,  as  if  she  were 
impatient  to  outgo  her  father's  commands,  by  making 
a  complete  conquest  of  him  at  once  ;  and  that  the 
letter  might  not  embarrass  her  attack,  crack  !  she 
crumbles  it  at  once  into  her  palm,  and  pours  upon 
him  her  whole  artillery  of  airs,  eyes,  and  motion  ; 
down  goes  her  dainty,  diving  body,  to  the  ground,  as 
if  she  were  sinking  under  the  conscious  load  of  her 
own  attractions  ;  then  launches  into  a  flood  of  fine 
language  and  compliment,  still  playing  her  chest 
forward  in  fifty  falls  and  risings,  like  a  swan  upon 
170 


waving  water ;  and,  to  complete  her  impertinence, 
she  is  so  rapidly  fond  of  her  own  wit,  that  she  will 
not  give  her  lover  leave  to  praise  it :  silent,  assenting 
bows,  and  vain  endeavours  to  speak,  are  all  the  share 
of  the  conversation  he  is  admitted  to,  which,  at  last, 
he  is  relieved  from,  by  her  engagement  to  half  a  score 
visits,  which  she  swims  from  him  to  make,  with  a 
promise  to  return  in  a  twinkling. 

Colley  Cibber. 


Sir  Roger  at  the  Play         o        *>        *>        o 

A  S  soon  as  the  house  was  full,  and  the  candles 
*  lighted,  my  old  friend  stood  up,  and  looked 
about  him  with  that  pleasure  which  a  mind  seasoned 
with  humanity  naturally  feels  in  itself,  at  the  sight  of 
a  multitude  of  people  who  seem  pleased  with  one 
another,  and  partake  of  the  same  common  entertain- 
ment. I  could  not  but  fancy  to  myself,  as  the  old 
man  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  pit,  that  he  made 
a  very  proper  centre  to  a  tragic  audience.  Upon  the 
entering  of  Pyrrhus,  the  knight  told  me  that  he  did 
not  believe  the  king  of  France  himself  had  a  better 
strut.  I  was  indeed  very  attentive  to  my  old  friend's 
remarks,  because  I  looked  upon  them  as  a  piece  of 
natural  criticism,  and  was  well  pleased  to  hear  him,  at 
the  conclusion  of  almost  every  scene,  telling  me  that  he 
could  not  imagine  how  the  play  would  end.  One  while 
he  appeared  much  concerned  for  Andromache  ;  and, 
171 


a  little  while  after,  as  much  for  Hermione  ;  and  was  ex- 
tremely puzzled  to  think  what  would  become  of  Pyrrhus. 

When  Sir  Roger  saw  Andromache's  obstinate 
refusal  to  her  lover's  importunities,  he  whispered  me 
in  the  ear,  that  he  was  sure  she  would  never  have 
him  ;  to  which  he  added,  with  a  more  than  ordinary 
vehemence,  "You  can't  imagine,  sir,  what  it  is  to 
have  to  do  with  a  widow."  Upon  Pyrrhus's  threatening 
afterwards  to  leave  her,  the  knight  shook  his  head  and 
muttered  to  himself,  "  Ay,  do  if  you  can."  This  part 
dwelt  so  much  upon  my  friend's  imagination,  that  at 
the  close  of  the  third  act,  as  I  was  thinking  of  something 
else,  he  whispered  me  in  my  ear,  "These  widows,  sir, 
are  the  most  perverse  creatures  in  the  world.  But 
pray,"  says  he,  "you  that  are  a  critic,  is  this  play 
according  to  your  dramatic  rules,  as  you  call  them  ? 
Should  your  people  in  tragedy  always  talk  to  be 
understood?  Why,  there  is  not  a  single  sentence 
in  this  play  that  I  do  not  know  the  meaning  of." 

The  fourth  act  very  luckily  began  before  I  had  time 
to  give  the  old  gentleman  an  answer.  "Well,"  says 
the  knight,  sitting  down  with  great  satisfaction,  "  I 
suppose  we  are  now  to  see  Hector's  ghost."  He  then 
renewed  his  attention,  and,  from  time  to  time,  fell  a- 
praising  the  widow.  He  made  indeed  a  little  mistake 
as  to  one  of  her  pages,  whom,  at  his  first  entering,  he 
took  for  Astyanax  ;  but  he  quickly  set  himself  right 
in  that  particular,  though,  at  the  same  time,  he  owned 
he  should  have  been  very  glad  to  have  seen  the  little 
boy,  who,  says  he,  must  needs  be  a  very  fine  child  by 
172 


the  account  that  is  given  of  him.  Upon  Hermione's 
going  off  with  a  menace  to  Pyrrhus,  the  audience 
gave  a  loud  clap,  to  which  Sir  Roger  added,  "  On  my 
word,  a  notable  young  baggage  !  " 

As  there  was  a  very  remarkable  silence  and  stillness 
in  the  audience  during  the  whole  action,  was  it  natural 
for  them  to  take  the  opportunity  of  these  intervals 
between  the  acts,  to  express  their  opinion  of  the 
players  and  of  their  respective  parts.  Sir  Roger, 
hearing  a  cluster  of  them  praise  Orestes,  struck  in 
with  them,  and  told  them,  that  he  thought  his  friend 
Pylades  was  a  very  sensible  man.  As  they  were 
afterwards  applauding  Pyrrhus,  Sir  Roger  put  in  a 
second  time.  "  And  let  me  tell  you,"  says  he,  "  though 
he  speaks  but  little,  I  like  the  old  fellow  in  whiskers 
as  well  as  any  of  them."  Captain  Sentry  seeing  two 
or  three  wags  who  sat  near  us  lean  with  an  attentive 
ear  towards  Sir  Roger,  and  fearing  lest  they  should 
smoke  the  knight,  plucked  him  by  the  elbow,  and 
whispered  something  in  his  ear  that  lasted  till  the 
opening  of  the  fifth  act.  The  knight  was  wonderfully 
attentive  to  the  account  which  Orestes  gives  of  Pyrrhus 
his  death,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  it,  told  me  it 
was  stich  a  bloody  piece  of  work  that  he  was  glad 
it  was  not  done  upon  the  stage.  Seeing  afterwards 
Orestes  in  his  raving  fit,  he  grew  more  than  ordinarily 
serious,  and  took  occasion  to  moralise,  in  his  way, 
upon  an  evil  conscience,  adding,  that  Orestes  in  his 
madness  looked  as  if  he  saw  something. 

Joseph  Addison. 

173 


Davy  •<>        o        o        o        ^^        •& 

/^ARRICK  would  indulge  some  few  friends — but 
^-^  it  was  very  rare — with  what  he  used  to  call  his 
rounds.  This  he  did  by  standing  behind  a  chair,  and 
conveying  into  his  face  every  kind  of  passion,  blending 
one  into  the  other,  and  as  it  were  shadowing  them 
with  a  prodigious  number  of  gradations.  At  one 
moment  you  laughed,  at  another  you  cried  ;  now  he 
terrified  you,  and  presently  you  conceived  yourself 
something  horrible,  he  seemed  so  terrified  at  you. 
Afterwards  he  drew  his  features  into  the  appearance 
of  such  dignified  wisdom  that  Minerva  might  have 
been  proud  of  the  portrait ;  and  then — degrading, 
yet  admirable  transition — he  became  a  driveller.  In 
short,  his  face  was  what  he  obliged  you  to  fancy  it — 
age,  youth,  plenty,  poverty,  everything  it  assumed. 

Charles  Dibdin. 


Mrs.  Jordan  o        <o        o        •*>        *t> 

I 

\  /T  RS.  JORDAN  was  inimitable  in  exemplifying 
the  consequences  of  too  much  restraint  in  ill- 
educated  Country  Girls,  in  Romps,  in  Hoydens,  and 
in  Wards  on  whom  the  mercenary  have  designs.  She 
wore  a  bib  and  tucker,  and  pinafore,  with  a  bouncing 
propriety,  fit  to  make  the  boldest  spectator  alarmed 
at  the  idea  of  bringing  such  a  household  responsibility 

174 


on  his  shoulders.  To  see  her  when  thus  attired  shed 
blubbering  tears  for  some  disappointment,  and  eat  all 
the  while  a  great  thick  slice  of  bread  and  butter, 
weeping,  and  moaning,  and  munching,  and  eyeing  at 
every  bite  the  part  she  meant  to  bite  next,  was  a  lesson 
against  will  and  appetite  worth  a  hundred  sermons  of 
our  friends  on  board  the  hoy  ;  and,  on  the  other  hand, 
they  could  assuredly  have  done  and  said  nothing  at 
all  calculated  to  make  such  an  impression  in  favour  of 
amiableness  as  she  did,  when  she  acted  in  gentle, 
generous,  and  confiding  characters.  The  way  in 
which  she  would  take  a  friend  by  the  cheek  and  kiss 
her,  or  make  up  a  quarrel  with  a  lover,  or  coax  a 
guardian  into  good-humour,  or  sing  (without  accom- 
paniment) the  song  of  "  Since  then  I'm  doom'd," 
or  "  In  the  dead  of  the  night,"  trusting,  as  she  had  a 
right  to  do,  and  as  the  house  wished  her  to  do,  to  the 
sole  effect  of  her  sweet,  mellow,  and  loving  voice — the 
reader  will  pardon  me,  but  tears  of  pleasure  and 
regret  come  into  my  eyes  at  the  recollection,  as  if  she 
personified  whatsoever  was  happy  at  that  period  of 
life,  and  which  was  gone  like  herself.  The  very  sound 
of  the  little  familiar  word  bud  from  her  lips  (the 
abbreviation  of  husband),  as  she  packed  it  closer,  as  it 
were,  in  the  utterance,  and  pouted  it  up  with  fondness 
in  the  man's  face,  taking  him  at  the  same  time  by  the 
chin,  was  a  whole  concentrated  world  of  the  power  of 
loving. 

Leigh  Hunt. 


'75 


II 

"T^HOSE  who  have  only  seen  Mrs.  Jordan  within 
•^  the  last  ten  or  fifteen  years,  can  have  no 
adequate  notion  of  her  performance  of  such  parts  as 
Ophelia  ;  Helena,  in  All's  Well  that  Ends  Well ;  and 
Viola  in  this  play.  Her  voice  had  latterly  acquired  a 
coarseness,  which  suited  well  enough  with  her  Nells 
and  Hoydens,  but  in  those  days  it  sank,  with  her 
steady  melting  eye,  into  the  heart.  Her  joyous  parts 
—  in  which  her  memory  now  chiefly  lives  —  in  her 
youth  were  outdone  by  her  plaintive  ones.  There  is 
no  giving  an  account  how  she  delivered  the  disguised 
story  of  her  love  for  Orsino.  It  was  no  set  speech, 
that  she  had  foreseen,  so  as  to  weave  it  into  an 
harmonious  period,  line  necessarily  following  line,  to 
make  up  the  music — yet  I  have  heard  it  so  spoken,  or 
rather  read,  not  without  its  grace  and  beauty — but, 
when  she  had  declared  her  sister's  history  to  be  a 
"blank,"  and  that  she  "never  told  her  love,"  there 
was  a  pause,  as  if  the  story  had  ended — and  then  the 
image  of  the  "  worm  in  the  bud  "  came  up  as  a  new 
suggestion — and  the  heightened  image  of  "  Patience  " 
still  followed  after  that,  as  by  some  growing  (and 
not  mechanical)  process,  thought  springing  up  after 
thought,  I  would  almost  say,  as  they  were  watered  by 
her  tears.  So  in  those  fine  lines — 

Write  loyal  cantos  of  contemned  love — 
Hollow  your  name  to  the  reverberate  hills — 

there  was  no  preparation  made  in  the  foregoing  image 

for  that  which  was  to  follow.     She  used  no  rhetoric  in 

176 


her  passion;  or  it  was  nature's  own  rhetoric,  most 
legitimate  then,  when  it  seemed  altogether  without 
rule  or  law 

Charles  Lamb. 


Munden          *t>        ^>        o        o        o        o 

"INHERE  is  one  face  of  Farley,  one  face  of  Knight, 
*•  one  (but  what  a  one  it  is!)  of  Liston;  but 
Munden  has  none  that  you  can  properly  pin  down, 
and  call  his.  When  you  think  he  has  exhausted  his 
battery  of  looks,  in  unaccountable  warfare  with  your 
gravity.,  suddenly  he  sprouts  out  an  entirely  new  set 
of  features,  like  Hydra  He  is  not  one,  but  legion.  Not 
so  much  a  comedian,  as  a  company.  If  his  name 
could  be  multiplied  like  his  countenance,  it  might  fill 
a  play  bill.  He,  and  he  alone,  literally  makes  faces: 
applied  to  any  other  person,  the  phrase  is  a  mere 
figure,  denoting  certain  modifications  of  the  human 
countenance.  Out  of  some  invisible  wardrobe  he 
dips  for  faces,  as  his  friend  Suett  used  for  wigs,  and 
fetches  them  out  as  easily  I  should  not  be  surprised 
to  see  him  some  day  put  out  the  head  of  a  river 
horse;  or  come  forth  a  pewitt,  or  lapwing,  some 
feathered  metamorphosis.  .  .  . 

Who   like   him   can     throw,   or   ever    attempted     to 

throw,    a    preternatural    interest   over    the   commonest 

daily  life   objects?     A   table,   or  a   joint  stool,   in   his 

conception,      rises     into     a     dignity     equivalent      to 

M  ,77 


Cassiopeia  s  chair.  It  is  invested  with  constellatory 
importance.  You  could  not  speak  of  it  with  more 
deference,  if  it  were  mounted  into  the  firmament.  A 
beggar  in  the  hands  of  Michael  Angelo,  says  Fuseli, 
rose  the  Patriarch  of  Poverty.  So  the  gusto  of 
Munden  antiquates  and  ennobles  what  it  touches. 
His  pots  and  his  ladles  are  as  grand  and  primal  as 
the  seething  pots  and  hooks  seen  in  old  prophetic 
vision  A  tub  of  butter,  contemplated  by  him 
amounts  to  a  Platonic  idea.  He  understands  a  leg  of 
mutton  in  its  quiddity.  He  stands  wondering,  amid 
the  common  place  materials  of  life,  like  primaeval 
man  with  the  sun  and  stars  about  him. 

Charles  Lamb. 


Charles  Kemble        o        ^>         ^>         o         er 

T  HAVE  acted  Ophelia  three  times  with  my  father, 
•*•  and  each  time,  in  that  beautiful  scene  where  his 
madness  and  his  love  gush  forth  together  like  a 
torrent  swollen  with  storms,  that  bears  a  thousand 
blossoms  on  its  troubled  waters,  I  have  experienced 
such  deep  emotion  as  hardly  to  be  able  to  speak. 
The  exquisite  tenderness  of  his  voice,  the  wild 
compassion  and  forlorn  pity  of  his  looks,  bestowing 
that  on  others  which,  above  all  others,  he  most 
needed;  the  melancholy  restlessness,  the  bitter  self- 
scorning;  every  shadow  of  expression  and  intonation 
178 


was  so  full  of  all  the  mingled  anguish  that  the  human 
heart  is  capable  of  enduring,  that  my  eyes  scarce 
fixed  on  his  ere  they  filled  with  tears  ;  and  long 
before  the  scene  wa?  over,  the  letters  and  jewel- 
cases  I  was  tendering  to  him  were  wet  with  them. 
The  hardness  of  professed  actors  and  actresses  is 
something  amazing.  After  this  part,  I  could  not  but 
recall  the  various  Ophelias  I  have  seen,  and  commend 
them  for  the  astonishing  absence  of  everything  like 
feeling  which  they  exhibited.  Oh,  it  made  my  heart 
sore  to  act  it ! 

Fanny  Kemble. 


Mrs  Siddons          o        o        -&>        o        «£> 

T  I  TE  trust  that  we  have  too  much  good  sense  to 
•  •  attempt  painting  a  picture  of  Sarah  Siddons. 
In  her  youth  it  is  said  she  was  beautiful,  even  lovely, 
and  won  men's  hearts  as  Rosalind.  But  beauty  is  a 
fading  flower  ;  it  faded  from  her  face  ere  one  wrinkle 
had  touched  that  fixed  paleness  which  seldom  was 
tinged  with  any  colour,  even  in  the  whirlwind  of 
passion.  Light  came  and  went  across  those  finest 
features  at  the  coming  or  going  of  each  feeling  and 
thought ;  but  faint  was  the  change  of  hue  ever  visible 
on  that  glorious  marble.  It  was  the  magnificent 
countenance  of  an  animated  statue,  in  the  stillness  of 
its  idealised  beauty  instinct  with  all  the  emotions  of 
179 


our  mortal  life.  Idealised  beauty  !  Did  we  not  say 
that  beauty  had  faded  from  her  face?  Yes,  but  it 
was  overspread  with  a  kindred  expression,  for  which 
we  withhold  the  name  only  because  it  seemed  more 
divine,  inspiring  awe  that  overpowered  while  it 
mingled  with  delight,  more  than  regal — say  rather, 
immortal.  Such  an  image  surely  had  never  before 
trod,  nor  ever  again  will  tread,  the  enchanted  floor. 
In  all  stateliest  shows  of  waking  woe  she  dwindled 
the  stateliest  into  insignificance  ;  her  majesty  made 
others  mean  ;  in  her  sunlike  light  all  stars  "  paled 
their  ineffectual  fires."  But  none  knew  the  troubled 
grandeur  of  guilt  till  they  saw  her  in  Lady  Macbeth, 
walking  in  her  sleep,  and  as  she  wrung  her  hands, 
striving  in  vain  to  wash  from  her  the  engrained 
murder,  "  Not  all  the  perfumes  of  Arabia  could 
sweeten  this  little  hand ! :>  The  whisper  came  as 
from  the  hollow  grave  ;  and  more  hideously  haunted 
than  ever  was  the  hollow  grave,  seemed  then  to  be 
the  cell  of  her  heart !  Shakespeare's  self  had  learned 
something  then  from  a  sight  of  Siddons. 

John  Wilson, 


Edmund  Kean        ^>        ^>        o        o        o 

I 

FT  is   impossible   to  form   a  higher  conception  of 
Richard  in.   than   that  given   by   Kean  :    never 
was  character  represented  by  greater  distinctness  and 
180 


precision,  and  perfectly  articulated  in  every  part.  If 
Kean  did  not  succeed  in  concentrating  all  the  lines  of 
the  character,  he  gave  a  vigour  and  relief  to  the  part 
which  we  have  never  seen  surpassed.  He  was  more 
refined  than  Cooke;  bolder  and  more  original  than 
Kemble.  The  scene  with  Lady  Anne  was  an 
admirable  specimen  of  bold  and  smiling  duplicity. 
Wily  adulation  was  firmly  marked  by  his  eye,  and  he 
appeared  like  the  first  tempter  in  the  garden.  Kean's 
attitude  in  leaning  against  the  pillar  was  one  of  the 
most  graceful  and  striking  positions  ever  witnessed. 
It  would  serve  a  Titian,  Raphael,  or  Salvator  Rosa 
as  a  model.  The  transition  from  the  fiercest  passion 
to  the  most  familiar  tone,  was  a  quality  which  Kean 
possessed  over  every  other  actor  that  ever  appeared. 
Many  attempted  this  style,  and  all  have  most 
egregiously  failed. 

William  Hazlitt. 


n 

T/"  EAN  is  gone,  and  with  him  are  gone  Othello, 
•*•  *•  Sliylock,  and  Richard.  I  have  lived  among 
those  whose  theatrical  creed  would  not  permit  them  to 
acknowledge  him  as  a  great  actor;  but  they  must  be 
bigoted  indeed  who  would  deny  that  he  was  a  great 
t,a-iiius— a  man  of  most  original  and  striking  powers, 
careless  of  art,  ]>erha|s  because  he  did  not  need  it, 
but  possessing  those  rare  gifts  of  nature  without 
which  art  is  as  a  dead  body.  \Vliu  iliat  ever  heard 
181 


will  ever  forget  the  beauty,  the  unutterable  tenderness 
of  his  reply  to  Desdemoncfs  entreaties  for  Cassia — 
"  Let  him  come  when  he  will ;  I  can  deny  thee 
nothing " ;  the  deep  despondency  of  his  "  Oh,  now 
farewell " ;  the  miserable  anguish  of  his  "  Oh, 
Desdemona,  away,  away ! "  Who  that  ever  saw 
will  ever  forget  the  fascination  of  his  dying  eyes  in 
Richard,  when  deprived  of  his  sword  ;  the  wondrous 
power  of  his  look  seemed  yet  to  avert  the  uplifted 
arm  of  Richmond.  If  he  was  irregular  and  unartist- 
like  in  his  performance,  so  is  Niagara  compared  with 
the  waterworks  of  Versailles. 

Fanny  Kemble. 


Ellen  Terry   o        o        o        o 

OME  say  she  is  not  human — 

This  strange  elusive  woman — 
That  she's  some  gay  enchanting  elf 
From  out  the  sea  or  sky  ; 

But  I 
Believe  she's  just  her  gracious  self. 

Some  ever  praise  the  acting, 

And  others,  all-exacting, 

Her  silences  adore.     But  when 

She  speaks  her  own  free  mind, 

I  find 

She  is  the  most  attractive  then. 
182 


Another  generation 
Shall  list  in  veneration, 
As  all  describe  her  haunting  art, 
And  sing  her  merits  high  ; 

But  I 
Shall  tell  them  of  her  gentle  heart. 

Anna  Gannon. 


The  Dancers          o        -o*        ~o        o        o 

T  N  the  reign  of  George  iv.,  I  give  you  my  honour, 
all  the  dancers  at  the  opera  were  as  beautiful  as 
Houris.  Even  in  William  iv.'s  time,  when  I  think 
of  Duvernay  prancing  in  as  the  Bayadere, —  I  say  it 
was  a  vision  of  loveliness  such  as  mortal  eyes  can't 
see  now-a-days.  How  well  I  remember  the  tune  to 
which  she  used  to  appear  ;  Kaled  used  to  say  to 
the  Sultan,  "  My  lord,  a  troop  of  those  dancing  and 
singing  gurls  called  Bayaderes  approach,"  and,  to 
the  clash  of  cymbals,  and  the  thumping  of  my  heart, 
in  she  used  to  dance  !  There  has  never  been  any- 
thing like  it — never.  There  never  will  be— I  lauyh 
to  scorn  old  people  who  tell  me  about  your  Noblet, 
your  Montessu,  your  Vestris,  your  Parisot — pshaw, 
the  senile  twaddlers  !  And  the  impudence  of  the 
young  men,  with  their  music  and  their  dancers  of 
to-day :  I  tell  you  the  women  are  dreary  old  creatures. 
I  tell  you  one  air  in  an  opera  is  just  like  another,  and 


they  send  all  rational  creatures  to  sleep.  Ah,  Ronzi 
de  Begnis,  thou  lovely  one !  Ah,  Caradori,  thou 
smiling  angel !  Ah,  Malibran  ! 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


Ducrow        o         o         *£>         <£>         -o         o 

^HEPHERD.  After  a',  sir,  it  canna  be  denied  that 
*— '  the  human  race  are  maist  extraordinary  creturs. 
What  canna  they,  by  constant  practice,  be  brought  to 
perform  ?  It's  a  perplexin'  place  yon  Circus  ;  ae  man 
draps  doun  in  the  dust,  and  awa'  out  o'  the  door  on 
his  doup  ;  anither  after  him,  \vi'  a'  celerity,  on  his 
elbows  ;  a  third  after  him  again,  soomin'  on  dry  laun' 
at  the  rate  o'  four  miles  an  hour ;  a  fourth  perpen- 
dicular on  the  pawms  o'  his  hauns  ;  and  a  fifth  on  the 
croon  o'  his  head,  without  ever  touchin'  the  grun'  wi' 
his  loofs  ava.  A'  the  while,  the  lang-luggit  fule,  wi'  a 
maist  divertin'  face,  balancin'  himsell  cross-legged  on 
a  chair  wi'  ae  foot,  is  spinnin'  roun'  like  a  whirligig. 
Ordinary  sittin'  or  walkin'  seems  perfectly  stupid  after 
that — feet  superfluous,  and  legs  an  incumbrance. 

North.  But  Ducrow,  James,  Ducrow  ? 

Shepherd.  Then  in  comes  a  tall,  pleasant-looking 
fallow  o'  a  German,  ane  Herr  Benjamin,  wha  thinks 
nae  mair  o'  balancin'  a  beam  o'  wood,  that  micht  be 
a  roof-tree  to  a  house,  on  his  wee  finger,  than  if  it 
were  a  wundle-strae  ;  then  gars  a  sodger's  musket, 
wi'  the  point  o'  the  beggonet  on  his  chin,  spin  roun' 
184 


till  it  becomes  nearly  invisible;  no'  content  wi'  that, 
up  wi'  a  ladder  aneath  his  lip,  wi'  a  laddie  on't,  as 
easily  as  if  it  were  a  leddy's  fan;  and,  feenally,  con- 
cludes wi'  twa  mail-cotch  wheels  on  the  mouth  o' 
him. 

North.     But  Ducrow,  James,  Ducrow? 

Shepherd.  Yon's  a  beautifu'  sicht,  sir  —  at  ance 
music,  dancin',  statuary,  painting,  and  poetry!  The 
crcturs  aneath  him  soon  cease  to  seem  horses,  as  they 
accelerate  round  the  circus,  wi'  a  motion  a'  their  ain, 
unlike  to  that  o'  ony  ither  four-footed  quadrupeds  on 
the  face  o'  this  earth,  mair  gracefu'  in  their  easy  swift- 
ness than  the  flight  o'  Arabian  coursers  ower  the 
desert,  and  to  the  eye  o'  imagination  some  rare  and 
new-created  animals,  fit  for  the  wild  and  wondrous 
pastimes  o'  that  greatest  o'  a'  magicians — Man. 

North.     But  Ducrow,  James,  Ducrow? 

Shepherd.  As  if  inspired,  possessed  by  some  spirit, 
over  whom  the  laws  o'  attraction  and  gravity  hae  nae 
control,  he  dallies  wi'  danger,  and  bears  a  charmed 
life,  safe  as  the  pigeon  that  you  will  afttimes  see  gang 
tapsy-turvy  amang  the  clouds,  and  tumblin'  doun  to 
within  a  yard  o'  the  earth,  then  re-ascend,  like  an 
arrow,  into  the  sunshine,  and,  wheelin'  roun'  and  roun' 
in  aft-repeated  circles,  extend  proudly  a'  its  burnished 
plumage  to  the  licht,  till  the  een  are  pained,  and  the 
brain  diz/.y  to  behold  the  aerial  brichtness  beautifyin' 
the  sky. 

North.     Bravo,  James — excellent — go  on. 

Shepherd.  \Vha  the  deevil  was  Castor,  that  the 
185 


ancients  made  a  god  o'  for  his  horsemanship— a  god 
o'  and  a  star — in  comparison  wi'  yon  Ducraw?  A 
silly  thocht  is  a  Centaur — man  and  a  horse  in  ane — 
in  which  the  dominion  o'  the  man  is  lost,  and  the 
superior  incorpsed  wi'  the  inferior  natur'.  Ducraw 
"rides  on  the  whirlwind,  and  directs  the  storm." 
And  oh,  sir !  how  saftly,  gently,  tenderly,  and  like 
the  dyin'  awa'  o'  fast  fairy  music  in  a  dream,  is  the 
subsidin'  o'  the  motion  o'  a'  the  creturs  aneath  his 
feet,  his  ain  gestures,  and  his  ain  attitudes,  and  his 
ain  actions,  a'  correspondin'  and  congenial  wi'  the 
ebbin'  flight ;  even  like  some  great  master  o'  music 
wha  doesna  leave  aff  when  the  soun"  is  at  its  heicht, 
but  gradually  leads  on  the  sowls  o'  the  listeners  to 
a  far  profounder  hush  o'  silence  than  reigned  even 
before  he  woke  to  ecstasy  his  livin'  lyre. 

John  Wilson  (Christopher  North), 


1 86 


YOUTH  IN  THE  CITY 


Shal.  O,  Sir  John,  do  you  remember  since  we  lay  all  night 
in  the  windmill  in  Saint  George's  field  ? 

Fal.   No  more  of  that,  good  Master  Shallow,  no  more  of  that. 

Shal.    Ha!  'twas  a  merry  night.      And  is  Jane  Nightwork  alive? 

Fal.   She  lives,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.   She  never  could  away  with  me. 

Fal.  Never,  never  ;  she  would  always  say  she  could  not 
abide  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  By  the  mass,  I  could  anger  her  to  the  heart.  She  was 
then  a  bona-roba.  Doth  she  hold  her  own  well  ? 

Fal.   Old,  old,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  Nay,  she  must  be  old  ;  she  cannot  oioose  but  be 
old  ;  certain  she's  old  ;  and  had  Robin  Nightwork  by  old 
Nightwork  before  I  came  to  Clement's  Inn. 

Sil.  That's  fifty-five  year  ago. 

Shal.  Ha,  cousin  Silence,  that  thou  hadst  seen  that  that  this 
knight  and  I  have  seen!  Ha,  Sir  John,  said  I  well? 

Fal.   We  have  heard  the  chimes  at  midnight,  Master  Shallow. 

Shal.  That  we  have,  that  we  have,  that  we  have;  in  faith,  Sir 
John,  we  have:  our  watch-word  was  "  Hem  boys!  "  Come,  let's 
to  dinner  ;  come,  let's  to  dinner :  Jesus,  the  days  that  we  have 
seen!  Come,  come. 

Shakespeare. 


Sally  in  our  Alley 


all  the  girls  that  are  so  smart, 
There's  none  like  pretty  Sally  ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

There  is  no  lady  in  the  land 

Is  half  so  sweet  as  Sally  ; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Her  father  he  makes  cabbage-nets, 

And  through  the  streets  does  cry  'em  ; 

Her  mother  she  sells  laces  long 

To  such  as  please  to  buy  'em  : 

But  sure  such  folks  could  ne'er  beget 

So  sweet  a  girl  as  Sally  ! 

Slje  is  the  darling  ol'my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  she  is  by  I  leave  my  work, 
I  love  her  so  sincerely  ; 
My  master  comes  like  any  Turk, 
And  bangs  me  most  severely — 
189 


But  let  him  bang  his  bellyful, 
I'll  bear  it  all  for  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

Of  all  the  days  that's  in  the  week 

I  dearly  love  but  one  day, 

And  that's  the  day  that  comes  betwixt 

A  Saturday  and  Monday; 

For  then  I'm  drest  all  in  my  best, 

To  walk  abroad  with  Sally; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 

And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

My  master  carries  me  to  Church, 
And  often  I  am  blamed 
Because  I  leave  him  in  the  lurch 
As  soon  as  text  is  named; 
I  leave  the  Church  in  sermon-time, 
And  slink  away  to  Sally; 
She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 

When  Christmas  comes  about  again> 

0  then  I  shall  have  money; 
I'll  hoard  it  up,  and  box  it  all, 
I'll  give  it  to  my  honey: 

1  would  it  were  ten  thousand  pound 
I'd  give  it  all  to  Sally; 

She  is  the  darling  of  my  heart, 
And  she  lives  in  our  alley. 
190 


My  master  and  the  neighbours  all 

Make  game  of  me  and  Sally, 

And,  but  for  her,  I'd  better  be 

A  slave  and  row  a  galley; 

But  when  my  seven  long  years  are* out, 

O  then  I'll  marry  Sally, — 

O  then  we'll  wed,  and  then  we'll  bed  .  .  . 

But  not  in  our  alley! 

H.  Carey. 


A  Ballad  upon  a  Wedding  o        o 

T   TELL  thee,  Dick,  where  I  have  been, 
Where  I  the  rarest  things  have  seen; 

O  things  without  compare! 
Such  sights  again  cannot  be  found 
In  any  place  on  English  ground, 

Be  it  at  wake  or  fair. 

At  Charing  Cross,  hard  by  the  way 
Where  we  (thou  knowst)  do  sell  our  hay, 

There  is  a  house  with  stairs; 
And  there  did  I  see  coming  down 
Such  folks  as  are  not  in  our  town, 

Forty  at  least,  in  pairs. 

Amongst  the  rest,  one  pest'lent  fine 
(.His  beard  no  bigger,  tho',  than  mine) 
Walk'd  on  before  the  rest; 
191 


Our  landlord  looks  like  nothing  to  him  : 
The  king  (God  bless  him  !)  'twould  undo  him, 
Should  he  go  still  so  drest. 

At  Coujse-a-park,  without  all  doubt, 
He  should  have  first  been  taken  out 

By  all  the  maids  i'  th'  town  : 
Though  lusty  Roger  there  had  been, 
Or  little  George  upon  the  green, 

Or  Vincent  of  the  Crown. 

But  wot  you  what  ?    The  youth  was  going 
To  make  an  end  of  all  his  wooing  ; 

The  parson  for  him  staid  : 
Yet  by  his  leave  (for  all  his  haste), 
He  did  not  so  much  wish  all  past, 

(Perchance)  as  did  the  maid. 

The  maid,  and  thereby  hangs  a  tale, 
For  such  a  maid  no  Whitsun-ale 

Could  ever  yet  produce  : 
No  grape  that's  kindly  ripe,  could  be 
So  round,  so  soft,  so  plump  as  she, 

Nor  half  so  full  of  juice. 

Her  finger  was  so  small,  the  ring 
Would  not  stay  on  which  they  did  bring  ; 

It  was  too  wide  a  peck  : 
And  to  say  truth  (for  out  it  must) 
It  look'd  like  the  great  collar  (just) 

About  our  young  colt's  neck. 
192 


Her  feet  beneath  her  petticoat, 
Like  little  mice,  stole  in  and  out, 

As  if  they  fear'd  the  light : 
But  O  !  she  dances  such  a  way  ! 
No  sun  upon  an  Easter-day 

Is  half  so  fine  a  sight 


He  would  have  kist  her  once  or  twice, 
But  she  would  not,  she  was  so  nice, 

She  would  not  do't  in  sight : 
And  then  she  lookt,  as  who  should  say 
I  will  do  what  I  list  to-day  ; 

And  you  shall  do't  at  night. 


Her  cheeks  so  rare  a  white  was  on, 
No  daisy  makes  comparison  ; 

Who  sees  them  is  undone  ; 
For  streaks  of  red  were  mingled  there, 
Such  as  are  on  a  Cath'rine  pear, 

The  side  that's  next  the  sun. 


Her  lips  were  red  ;  and  one  was  thin, 
Compared  to  that  was  next  her  chin 

(Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly) ; 
But,  Dick,  her  eyes  so  guard  her  face, 
I  durst  no  more  upon  them  gaze, 

Than  on  the  sun  in  July. 
N  193 


Her  mouth  so  small,  when  she  does  speak, 
Thou'd'st  swear  her  teeth  her  words  did  break, 

That  they  might  passage  get ; 
But  she  so  handled  still  the  matter, 
They  came  as  good  as  ours,  or  better, 

And  are  not  spent  a  whit. 


Passion  o'  me  !  how  I  run  on  ! 

There's  that  that  would  be  thought  upon, 

I  trow,  besides  the  bride  : 
The  business  of  the  kitchen's  great, 
For  it  is  fit  that  men  should  eat ; 

Nor  was  it  there  denied. 


Just  in  the  nick  the  cook  knock'd  thrice, 
And  all  the  waiters  in  a  trice 

His  summons  did  obey  ; 
Each  serving-man,  with  dish  in  hand, 
March'd  boldly  up,  like  our  train'd-band, 

Presented,  and  away. 


When  all  the  meat  was  on  the  table, 
What  man  of  knife,  or  teeth,  was  able 

To  stay  to  be  intreated  ? 
And  this  the  very  reason  was, 
Before  the  parson  could  say  grace, 

The  company  were  seated. 
194 


Now  hats  fly  off,  and  youth  carouse"; 
Healths  first  go  round,  and  then  the  house, 

The  bride's  come  thick  and  thick  ; 
And  when  'twas  named  another's  health, 
Perhaps  he  made  it  hers  by  stealth, 

(And  who  could  help  it,  Dick  ?) 

O'  th"  sudden  up  they  rise  and  dance; 
Then  sit  again,  and  sigh,  and  glance  ; 

Then  dance  again,  and  kiss. 
Thus  sev'ral  ways  the  time  did  pass, 
Till  ev'ry  woman  wish'd  her  place, 

And  ev'ry  man  wish'd  his. 

By  this  time  all  were  stol'n  aside 
To  counsel  and  undress  the  bride  ; 

But  that  he  must  not  know  : 
But  yet  'twas  thought  he  guess'd  her  mind, 
And  did  not  mean  to  stay  behind 

Above  an  hour  or  so. 

When  in  he  came  (Dick)  there  she  lay 
Like  new  fal'n  snow  melting  away, 

('Twas  time,  I  trow,  to  part  :) 
Kisses  were  now  the  only  stay, 
Which  soon  she  gave,  as  who  would  say, 

Good  boy  !  with  all  my  heart.1 

Sir  John  Suckling. 

1  Three  stanzas  have  been  reluctantly  omitted. 
195 


The  Chronicle :  A  Ballad    «£>         o        o 

TV /[  ARGARITA  first  possess'd, 
*»*      If  I  remember  well,  my  breast, 

Margarita  first  of  all  ; 
But  when  awhile  the  wanton  maid 
With  my  restless  heart  had  play'd, 

Martha  took  the  flying  ball. 

Martha  soon  it  did  resign 
To  the  beauteous  Catharine. 

Beauteous  Catharine  gave  place 
(Though  loth  and  angry  she  to  part 
With  the  possession  of  my  heart) 

To  Eliza's  conquering  face. 

Eliza  till  this  hour  might  reign, 
Had  she  not  evil  counsel  ta'en  : 

Fundamental  laws  she  broke, 
And  still  new  favourites  she  chose, 
Till  up  in  arms  my  passions  rose, 

And  cast  away  her  yoke. 

Mary  then,  and  gentle  Anne, 
Both  to  reign  at  once  began  ; 

Alternately  they  swayed  : 
And  sometimes  Mary  was  the  fair, 
And  sometimes  Anne  the  crown  did  wear, 

And  sometimes  both  I  obey'd. 
196 


Another  Mary  then  arose, 
And  did  rigorous  law  impose 

A  mighty  tyrant  she  '. 
Long,  alas  '.  should  I  have  been 
Under  that  iron-sceptred  queen, 

Had  not  Rebecca  set  me  free. 


When  fair  Rebecca  set  me  free, 
:T\vas  then  a  golden  time  with  me, 

But  soon  those  pleasures  fled  ; 
For  the  gracious  princess  died 
In  her  youth  and  beauty's  pride, 

And  Judith  reigned  in  her  stead. 


One  month,  three  days,  and  half  an  hour, 
Judith  held  the  sovereign  power  : 

Wondrous  beautiful  her  face  ! 
But  so  weak  and  small  a  wit, 
That  she  to  govern  was  unfit, 

And  so  Susanna  took  her  place. 


But  when  Isabella  came, 
Arm'd  with  a  resistless  flame, 

And  th'  artillery  of  her  eye  ; 
Whilst  she  proudly  marched  about, 
Greater  conquests  to  find  out, 

She  beat  out  Susan  by  the  bye 
197 


But  in  her  place  I  then  obey'd 
Black-ey'd  Bess,  her  viceroy  maid, 

To  whom  ensued  a  vacancy  : 
Thousand  worse  passions  then  possess'd 
The  interregnum  of  my  breast  ; 

Bless  me  from  such  an  anarchy  ! 


Gentle  Henrietta  then, 

And  a  third  Mary,  next  began  ; 

Then  Joan,  and  Jane,  and  Audria ; 
And  then  a  pretty  Thomasine, 
And  then  another  Catharine, 
And  then  a  long  et  caetera. 


But  should  I  now  to  you  relate 

The  strength  and  riches  of  their  state, 

The  powder,  patches,  and  the  pins, 
The  ribbons,  jewels,  and  the  rings, 
The  lace,  the  paint,  and  warlike  things, 

That  make  up  all  their  magazines  : 


If  I  should  tell  the  politic  arts 
To  take  and  keep  men's  hearts  ; 

The  letters,  embassies,  and  spies, 
The  frowns,  and  smiles,  and  flatteries, 
The  quarrels,  tears,  and  perjuries, 

(Numberless,  nameless  mysteries  !) 
198 


And  all  the  little  lime-twigs  laid 
By  Machiavel,  the  waiting  maid  ; 

I  more  voluminous  should  grow 
(Chiefly  if  I,  like  them,  should  tell 
All  change  of  weather  that  befel) 

Than  Holinshed  or  Stow. 

But  I  will  briefer  with  them  be, 
Since  few  of  them  were  long  with  me  : 

An  higher  and  a  nobler  strain 
My  present  emperess  does  claim, 
Heleonora,  first  o'  th'  name, 

Whom  God  grant  long  to  reign. 

Abraham  Cow  ley. 


A  Ballad  in  imitation  of  Martial,  Lib.  vi.  Ep.  34, 
on  Lady  Ilchester  asking  Lord  Ilchester, 
How  many  kisses  he  would  have?  o 


BETTY  !  come,  give  me  sweet  kisses  ! 
For  sweeter  no  Girl  ever  gave  ! 
But  why,  in  the  midst  of  our  blisses, 

Do  you  ask  me,  How  many  I'd  have  ? 
I'm  not  to  be  stinted  in  pleasure, 

Then,  prithee,  dear  BETTY  !  be  kind  ! 
For  as  I  love  thee  beyond  measure, 
To  numbers  I'll  not  be  confined  : 
199 


Count  the  bees  that  on  Hybla  are  straying  ! 

Count  the  flowers  that  enamel  the  fields  ! 
Count  the  flocks  that  on  Tempe  are  playing  ; 

Or  the  grains  that  each  Sicily  yields  ! 
Count  how  many  stars  are  in  heaven  ! 

Go,  reckon  the  sands  on  the  shore  ! 
And  when  so  many  kisses  you've  given, 

I  still  shall  be  asking  for  more  ! 

To  a  heart  full  of  love,  let  me  hold  thee  ! 

A  heart  that,  dear  BETTY  !  is  thine  ! 
In  my  arms  I'll  for  ever  enfold  thee, 

And  curl  round  thy  neck  like  a  vine  ! 
What  joy  can  be  greater  than  this  is  ? 

My  life  on  thy  lips  shall  be  spent ! 
But  those  who  can  number  their  kisses, 

Will  always  with  few  be  content ! 

Sir  Charles  Hanbury  Williams. 


The  Cane-bottom'd  Chair          •*>        o        «£> 

T  N  tattered  old  slippers  that  toast  at  the  bars, 
•*-     And  a  ragged  old  jacket  perfumed  with  cigars, 
Away  from  the  world  and  its  toils  and  its  cares, 
I've  a  snug  lit.tle  kingdom  up  four  pair  of  stairs. 

To  mount  to  this  realm  is  a  toil,  to  be  sure, 
But  the  fire  there  is  bright  and  the  air  rather  pure  ; 
And  the  view  I  behold  on  a  sunshiny  day 
Is  grand,  through  the  chimney-pots  over  the  way. 
200 


This  snug  little  chamber  is  cramm'd  in  all  nooks 
With  worthless  old  knicknacks  and  silly  old  books, 
And  foolish  old  odds  and  foolish  old  ends, 
Crack'd  bargains  from  brokers,  cheap  keepsakes  from 
friends. 

Old  armour,  prints,  pictures,  pipes,  china  (all  crack'd), 

Old  rickety  tables,  and  chairs  broken-backed  ; 

A  twopenny  treasury,  wondrous  to  see  ; 

What  matter  ?  'tis  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

No  better  divan  need  the  Sultan  require, 
Than  the  creaking  old  sofa  that  basks  by  the  fire  ; 
And  'tis  wonderful,  surely,  what  music  you  get 
From  the  rickety,  ramshackle,  wheezy  spinet. 

That  praying-rug  came  from  a  Turcoman's  camp ; 
By  Tiber  once  twinkled  that  brazen  old  lamp  ; 
A  Mameluke  fierce  yonder  dagger  has  drawn  : 
'Tis  a  murderous  knife  to  toast  muffins  upon. 

Long,  long  through  the  hours,  and  the  night,  and  the 

chimes, 
Here  we  talk  of  old  books,  and  old  friends,  and  old 

times  ; 

As  we  sit  in  a  fog  made  of  rich  Latakie, 
This  chamber  is  pleasant  to  you,  friend,  and  me. 

But  of  all  the  cheap  treasures  that  garnish  my  nest, 
There's  one  that  I  love  and  I  cherish  the  best ; 
201 


For  the  finest  of  couches  that's  padded  with  hair 
I  never  would  change  thee,  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

Tis  a  bandy-legg'd,  high-shoulder'd,  worm-eaten  seat, 
With  a  creaking  old  back,  and  twisted  old  feet ; 
But  since  the  fair  morning  when  Fanny  sat  there, 
I  bless  thee  and  love  thee,  old  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

If  chairs  have  but  feeling,  in  holding  such  charms, 
A  thrill  must  have  pass'd  through  your  wither'd  old 

arms  ! 

I  look'd,  and  I  long'd,  and  I  wish'd  in  despair  ; 
I  wish'd  myself  turn'd  to  a  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

It  was  but  a  moment  she  sat  in  this  place, 
She'd  a  scarf  on  her  neck,  and  a  smile  on  her  face  ! 
A  smile  on  her  face,  and  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
And  she  sat  there,  and  bloom'd  in  my  cane-bottom'd 
chair. 

And  so  I  have  valued  my  chair  ever  since, 

Like  the  shrine  of  a  saint,  or  the  throne  of  a  prince  ; 

Saint  Fanny,  my  patroness,  sweet  I  declare, 

The  queen  of  my  heart  and  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

When  the  candles  burn  low,  and  the  company's  gone, 
In  the  silence  of  night  as  I  sit  here  alone — 
I  sit  here  alore,  but  we  yet  are  a  pair — 
My  Fanny  I  see  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

202 


She  comes  from  the  past,  and  revisits  my  room  ; 
She  looks  as  she  then  did,  all  beauty  and  bloom  ; 
So  smiling  and  tender,  so  fresh  and  so  fair, 
And  yonder  she  sits  in  my  cane-bottom'd  chair. 

William  Makepeace  Thackeray. 


Jenny  kiss'd  me          o        o        •*>        o 

JENNY  kiss'd  me  when  we  met, 
Jumping  from  the  chair  she  sat  in  ; 
Time,  you  thief !  who  love  to  get 

Sweets  into  your  list,  put  that  in. 
Say  I'm  weary,  say  I'm  sad  ; 

Say  that  health  and  wealth  have  miss'd  me  ; 
Say  I'm  growing  old,  but  add — 

Jenny  kiss'd  me  ! 

Leigh  hunt. 


Hester          o         *s»        o         o         o         o 

Ma  nil  1003. 

"P\EAR  MANNING,  I  send  you  some  verses  I  have 
*-^  made  on  the  death  of  a  young  Quaker  you  may 
have  heard  me  speak  of  as  being  in  love  with  for 
some  years  while  I  lived  at  Pentonville,  though  I  had 
never  spoken  to  her  in  my  life.  She  died  about  a 
month  since.  If  you  have  interest  with  the  Abbe  de 
203 


Lisle,  you  may  get  'em  translated :  he  has  done  as 
much  for  the  Georgics. 

When  maidens  such  as  Hester  die, 
Their  place  ye  may  not  well  supply, 
Though  ye  among  a  thousand  try, 
With  vain  endeavour. 

A  month  or  more  hath  she  been  dead, 
Yet  cannot  I  by  force  be  led 
To  think  upon  the  wormy  bed, 
And  her  together. 

A  springy  motion  in  her  gait, 
A  rising  step,  did  indicate 
Of  pride  and  joy  no  common  rate, 
That  flush'd  her  spirit. 

I  know  not  by  what  name  beside 
I  shall  it  call : — if 'twas  not  pride, 
It  was  a  joy  to  that  allied, 
She  did  inherit. 

Her  parents  held  the  Quaker  rule, 
Which  doth  the  human  feeling  cool, 
But  she  was  train'd  in  Nature's  school, 
Nature  had  blest  her. 

A  waking  eye,  a  prying  mind, 
A  heart  that  stirs,  is  hard  to  bind, 
A  hawk's  keen  sight  ye  cannot  blind, 
Ye  could  not  Hester. 
204 


My  sprightly  neighbour,  gone  before 
To  that  unknown  and  silent  shore, 
Shall  we  not  meet,  as  heretofore, 
Some  summer  morning, 

When  from  thy  cheerful  eyes  a  ray 
Hath  struck  a  bliss  upon  the  day, 
A  bliss  that  would  not  go  away, 
A  sweet  forewarning  ? 

Charles  Lamb. 


Youth  and  Art 


T  T  once  might  have  been,  once  only  : 
•*•     We  lodged  in  a  street  together, 
You,  a  sparrow  on  the  housetop  lonely, 
I,  a  lone  she-bird  of  his  feather. 


Your  trade  was  with  sticks  and  clay, 

You  thumbed,  thrust,  patted,  and  polished, 

Then  laughed,  "  They  will  see  some  day 
"  Smith  made,  and  Gibson  demolished." 

My  business  was  song,  song,  song ; 

I  chirped,  cheeped,  trilled,  and  twittered, 
"  Kate  Brown's  on  the  boards  ere  long, 

"And  Grisi's  existence  embittered  ! " 
205 


I  earned  no  more  by  a  warble 
Than  you  by  a  sketch  in  plaster  ; 

You  wanted  a  piece  of  marble, 
I  needed  a  music-master. 


We  studied  hard  in  our  styles, 

Chipped  each  at  a  crust  like  Hindoos, 

For  air,  looked  out  on  the  tiles, 

For  fun,  watched  each  other's  windows. 

You  lounged,  like  a  boy  of  the  South, 

Cap  and  blouse — nay,  a  bit  of  beard  too  ; 

Or  you  got  it,  rubbing  your  mouth 
With  fingers  the  clay  adhered  to. 

And  I — soon  managed  to  find 

Weak  points  in  the  flower-fence  facing, 
Was  forced  to  put  up  a  blind, 

And  be  safe  in  my  corset  lacing. 

No  harm  !     It  was  not  my  fault 

If  you  never  turned  your  eye's  tail  up, 

As  I  shook  upon  E  in  alt, 

Or  ran  the  chromatic  scale  up  : 

For  spring  bade  the  sparrows  pair, 
And  the  boys  and  girls  gave  guesses, 

And  stalls  in  our  street  looked  rare 
With  bulrush  and  water-cresses. 
206 


Why  did  not  you  pinch  a  flower 

In  a  pellet  of  clay  and  fling  it  ? 
Why  did  not  I  put  a  power 

Of  thanks  in  a  look,  or  sing  it  ? 

I  did  look,  sharp  as  a  lynx 

(And  yet  the  memory  rankles), 
When  models  arrived,  some  minx 

Tripped  up-stairs,  she  and  her  ankles. 

But  I  think  I  gave  you  as  good  ! 

"  That  foreign  fellow, — who  can  know 
"  How  she  pays,  in  a  playful  mood, 

"  For  his  tuning  her  that  piano  ? " 

Could  you  say  so,  and  never  say, 

"  Suppose  we  join  hands  and  fortunes, 

"  And  I  fetch  her  from  over  the  way, 

"  Her,  piano,  and  long  tunes  and  short  tunes  ?  " 

No,  no  ;  you  would  not  be  rash, 

Nor  I  rasher  and  something  over  : 
You've  to  settle  yet  Gibson's  hash, 

And  Grisi  yet  lives  in  clover. 

But  you  meet  the  Prince  at  the  Board, 

I'm  queen  myself  at  bals-part, 
I've  married  a  rich  old  lord, 

And  you're  dubbed  knight  and  an  R.A. 
207 


Each  life's  unfulfilled,  you  see  ; 

It  hangs  still,  patchy  and  scrappy  : 
We  have  not  sighed  deep,  laughed  free, 

Starved,  feasted,  despaired, — been  happy. 

And  nobody  calls  you  a  dunce, 

And  people  suppose  me  clever  : 
This  could  but  have  happened  once, 

And  we  missed  it,  lost  it  for  ever. 

Robert  Browning. 


Bridget  and  the  Folio         o        o        o        o 

you  remember  the  brown  suit,  which  you  made 
to  hang  upon  you,  till  all  your  friends  cried 
shame  upon  you,  it  grew  so  thread-bare — and  all 
because  of  that  folio  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  which 
you  dragged  home  late  at  night  from  Barker's  in 
Covent  Garden  ?  Do  you  remember  how  we  eyed  it 
for  weeks  before  we  could  make  up  our  minds  to  the 
purchase,  and  had  not  come  to  a  determination  till 
it  was  near  ten  o'clock  of  the  Saturday  night,  when 
you  set  off  from  Islington,  fearing  you  should  be  too 
late — and  when  the  old  bookseller  with  some  grumbling 
opened  his  shop,  and  by  the  twinkling  taper  (for  he 
was  setting  bedwards)  lighted  out  the  relic  from  his 
dusty  treasures — and  when  you  lugged  it  home,  wish- 
ing it  were  twice  as  cumbersome — and  when  you 
presented  it  to  me — and  when  we  were  exploring 
208 


the  perfectness  of  it  (collating  you  called  it) — and 
while  I  was  repairing  some  of  the  loose  leaves  with 
paste,  which  your  impatience  would  not  suffer  to  be 
left  till  day-break — was  there  no  pleasure  in  being 
a  poor  man  ?  or  can  those  neat  black  clothes  which 
you  wear  now,  and  are  so  careful  to  keep  brushed, 
since  we  have  become  rich  and  finical,  give  you  half 
the  honest  vanity  with  which  you  flaunted  it  about 
in  that  over-worn  suit — your  old  corbeau — for  four 
or  five  weeks  longer  than  you  should  have  done,  to 
pacify  your  conscience  for  the  mighty  sum  of  fifteen — 
or  sixteen  shillings  was  it  ? — a  great  affair  we  thought 
it  then — which  you  had  lavished  on  the  old  folio. 
Now  you  can  afford  to  buy  any  book  that  pleases 
you,  but  I  do  not  see  that  you  ever  bring  me  home 
any  nice  old  purchases  now. 

Charles  Lamb. 


A  Credo 


R  the  sole  edification 
Of  this  decent  congregation, 
Goodly  people,  by  your  grant 
I  will  sing  a  holy  chant  — 
I  will  sing  a  holy  chant 
If  the  ditty  sound  but  oddly, 
Twas  a  father,  wise  and  godly, 

Sang  it  so  long  ago  — 
o  209 


Then  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  !  " 

He,  by  custom  patriarchal, 
Loved  to  see  the  beaker  sparkle  ; 
And  he  thought  the  wine  improved, 
Tasted  by  the  lips  he  loved— 

By  the  kindly  lips  he  loved. 
Friends,  I  wish  this  custom  pious 
Duly  were  observed  by  us, 

To  combine  love,  song,  wine, 
And  sing  as  Martin  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang  : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  ! " 

Who  refuses  this  our  Credo, 
And  who  will  not  sing  as  we  do, 
Were  he  holy  as  John  Knox, 
I'd  pronounce  him  heterodox, 
And  from  out  this  congregation, 
With  a  solemn  commination, 

Banish  quick  the  heretic, 
Who  will  not  sing  as  Luther  sang, 
As  Doctor  Martin  Luther  sang : 
"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
He  is  a  fool  his  whole  life  long  ! " 

W.  M,  Thackeray. 


"  Tom  and  Jerry "  o         o         o         o         o 

T)  UT  the  pictures  !— oh  ! — the  pictures  are  noble 
•^  still !  First,  there  is  Jerry  arriving  from  the 
country,  in  a  green  coat  and  leather  gaiters,  and  being 
measured  for  a  fashionable  suit  at  Corinthian  House, 
by  Corinthian  Tom's  tailor.  Then  away  for  the  career 
of  pleasure  and  fashion.  The  park!  delicious  excite- 
ment !  The  theatre  !  the  saloon  !!  the  green-room  ! ! ! 
Rapturous  bliss— the  opera  itself!  and  then  perhaps 
to  Temple  Bar,  to  knock  down  a  Charley  there! 
There  are  Jerry  and  Tom,  with  their  tights  and  little 
cocked  hats,  coming  from  the  opera — very  much  as 
gentlemen  in  waiting  on  Royalty  are  habited  now. 
There  they  are  at  Almack's  itself,  amidst  a  crowd  of 
high-bred  personages,  with  the  Duke  of  Clarence 
himself  looking  at  them  dancing.  Now,  strange 
change,  they  are  in  Tom  Cribb's  parlour,  where  they 
don't  seem  to  be  a  whit  less  at  home  than  in  fashion's 
gilded  halls  :  and  now  they  are  at  Newgate,  seeing  the 
irons  knocked  off  the  malefactors'  legs  previous  to 
execution.  .  .  .  Now  we  haste  away  to  merrier  scenes  : 
to  Tattersall's  (ah,  gracious  powers  !  what  a  funny 
fellow  that  actor  was  who  performed  Dicky  Green  in 
that  scene  at  the  play  !)  ;  and  now  we  are  at  a  private 
party,  at  which  Corinthian  Tom  is  waltzing  (and  very 
gracefully,  too,  as  you  must  confess)  with  Corinthian 
Kate,  whilst  Bob  Logic,  the  Oxonian,  is  playing  on 
the  piano  ! 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 
211 


Epigram        o        -^>        *e>        o        •£>        *& 

COME,  Sleep  !  but  mind  ye  !  if  you  come  without 
The  little  girl  that  struck  me  at  the  rout, 
By  Jove  !  I  would  not  give  you  half  a  crown 
For  all  your  poppy-heads  and  all  your  down. 

W.  S.  Landor. 


To  Minerva  o        o        o        o        « 

(From  the  Greek) 

TV  l\  Y  temples  throb,  my  pulses  boil, 
•*•*-*•      I'm  sick  of  Song,  and  Ode,  and  Ballad 
So  Thyrsis,  take  the  midnight  oil, 
And  pour  it  on  a  lobster  salad. 

My  brain  is  dull,  my  sight  is  foul, 
I  cannot  write  a  verse,  or  read, — 

Then  Pallas,  take  away  thine  Owl, 
And  let  us  have  a  Lark  instead. 

Thomas  Hood. 


212 


THE  TAVERN 


A  good  sherris-sack  hath  a  two-fold  operation  in  it.  It 
ascends  me  into  the  brain  ;  dries  me  there  all  the  foolish,  and 
dull,  and  crudy  vapours  which  environ  it ;  makes  it  apprehen- 
sive, quick,  forgetive,  full  of  nimble,  fiery,  and  delectable 
shapes ;  which,  delivered  o'er  to  the  voice,  the  tongue,  which 
is  the  birth,  becomes  excellent  wit.  The  second  property  of 
your  excellent  sherris  is,  the  warming  of  the  blood ;  which, 
before  cold  and  settled,  left  the  liver  white  and  pale,  which  is 
the  badge  of  pusillanimity  and  cowardice ;  but  the  sherris 
warms  it,  and  makes  it  course  from  the  inwards  to  the  parts 
extreme:  it  illumineth  the  face,  which,  as  a  beacon,  gives 
warning  to  all  the  rest  of  this  little  kingdom,  man,  to  arm  ; 
and  then  the  vital  commoners  and  inland  petty  spirits  muster 
me  all  to  their  captain,  the  heart,  who,  great,  and  puffed  up 
with  this  retinue,  doth  any  deed  of  courage ;  and  this  valour 
comes  of  sherris.  ...  If  I  had  a  thousand  sons,  the  first  human 
principle  I  would  teach  them  should  be — to  forswear  thin 
potations,  and  to  addict  themselves  to  sack. 

Sir  John  Falstaff  (via  Shakespeare). 


The  Dead  Host's  Welcome       o        o        *o 

''  I  "IS  late  and  cold  :  slir  up  the  fire  ; 

-*•      Sit  close,  and  draw  the  table  nigher  ; 
Be  merry,  and  drink  wine  that's  old, 
A  hearty  medicine  'gainst  a  cold  ! 
Your  beds  of  wanton  down  the  best, 
Where  you  shall  tumble  to  your  rest ; 
I  could  wish  you  wenches  too, 
But  I  am  dead,  and  cannot  do. 
Call  for  the  best  the  house  may  ring, 
Sack,  white,  and  claret,  let  them  bring, 
And  drink  apace,  while  breath  you  have  ; 
You'll  find  but  cold  drink  in  the  grave  : 
Plover,  partridge,  for  your  dinner, 
And  a  capon  for  the  sinner, 
You  shall  find  ready  when  you're  up, 
And  your  horse  shall  have  his  sup  : 
Welcome,  welcome  shall  fly  round, 
And  I  shall  smile,  though  underground. 

John  Fletcher. 


215 


A  Tavern  Scene      o         <>         o         *s*         o 

T^ALSTAFF  (speaking  as  Henry  iv.  to  his  son]— 
Harry,  I  do  not  only  marvel  where  thou  spendcst 
thy  time,  but  also  how  thou  art  accompanied :  for  though 
the  camomile,  the  more  it  is  trodden  on,  the  faster  it 
grows,  yet  youth,  the  more  it  is  wasted,  the  sooner 
it  wears.  That  thou  art  my  son,  I  have  partly  thy 
mother's  word,  partly  my  own  opinion  ;  but  chiefly  a 
villainous  trick  of  thine  eye,  and  a  foolish  hanging 
of  thy  nether  lip,  that  doth  warrant  me.  If  then  thou 
be  son  to  me,  here  lies  the  point : — why,  being  son  to 
me,  art  thou  so  pointed  at  ?  Shall  the  blessed  sun  of 
heaven  prove  a  micher,  and  eat  blackberries  ?  a  ques- 
tion not  to  be  asked.  Shall  the  son  of  England  prove  a 
thief,  and  take  purses  ?  a  question  to  be  asked.  There 
is  a  thing,  Harry,  which  thou  hast  often  heard  of, 
and  it  is  known  to  many  in  our  land  by  the  name  of 
pitch  :  this  pitch,  as  ancient  writers  do  report,  doth 
defile ;  so  doth  the  company  thou  keepest ;  for, 
Harry,  now .  I  do  not  speak  to  thee  in  drink,  but  in 
tears ;  not  in  pleasure,  but  in  passion  ;  not  in  words 
only,  but  in  woes  also  : — and  yet  there  is  a  virtuous 
man,  whom  I  have  often  noted  in  thy  company,  but 
I  know  not  his  name. 

P.  Hen.  What  manner  of  man,  an  it  like  your 
majesty  ? 

Fal.  A  goodly  portly  man,  i'  faith,  and  a  corpulent ; 
of  a  cheerful  look,  a  pleasing  eye,  and  a  most  noble 
carriage  ;  and,  as  I  think,  his  age  some  fifty,  or,  b/r 
216 


lady,  inclining  to  threescore  ;  and  now  I  remember 
me,  his  name  is  Falstaff:  if  that  man  should  be 
lewdly  given,  he  deceiveth  me  ;  for,  Harry,  I  see 
virtue  in  his  looks.  If  then  the  tree  may  be  known 
by  the  fruit,  as  the  fruit  by  the  tree,  then,  peremptorily 
I  speak  it,  there  is  virtue  in  that  Falstaff:  him  keep 
with,  the  rest  banish.  And  tell  me  now,  thou  naughty 
varlet,  tell  me,  where  bast  thou  been  this  month? 

P.  Hen.  Dost  thou  speak  like  a  king?  Do  thou 
stand  for  me,  and  I'll  play  my  father. 

Fal.  Depose  me?  If  thou  dost  it  half  so  gravely, 
so  majestically,  both  in  word  and  matter,  hang  me 
up  by  the  heels  for  a  rabbit-sucker  or  a  coulter's 
hare. 

P.  Hen.  Well,  here  I  am  set. 

Fal.  And  here  I  stan  1  :  judge,  my  masters. 

P.  Hen.  Now,  Harry,  whence  come  you? 

Fal.  My  noble  lord,  from  Eastcheap. 

P.  Hen.  The  complaints  I  hear  of  thee  are  grievous 

Fal.  'Sblood,  my  lord,  they  are  false : — nay,  I'll 
tickle  ye  for  a  young  prince,  i'  faith. 

P.  Hen.  Swearest  thou,  ungracious  boy  ?  henceforth 
ne'er  look  on  me.  Thou  art  violently  carried  away 
from  grace  :  there  is  a  devil  haunts  thee,  in  the 
likeness  of  an  old  fat  man, — a  tun  of  man  is  thy  com- 
panion. Why  dost  thou  converse  with  that  trunk 
of  humours,  that  bolting-hutch  of  beastliness,  that 
swollen  parcel  of  dropsies,  that  huge  bombard  of  sack, 
that  stuffed  cloak-bag  of  guts,  that  roasted  Manning- 
tree  ox  with  the  pudding  in  his  belly,  that  reverend 
217 


vice,  that  grey  iniquity,  that  father  ruffian,  that  vanity 
in  years  ?  Wherein  is  he  good,  but  to  taste  sack  and 
drink  it?  wherein  neat  and  cleanly,  but  to  carve  a 
capon  and  eat  it?  wherein  cunning,  but  in  craft? 
wherein  crafty,  but  in  villainy?  wherein  villainous, 
but  in  all  things  ?  wherein  worthy,  but  in  nothing  ? 

Fal.  I  would  your  grace  would  take  me  with  you : 
whom  means  your  grace  ? 

P.  Hen.  That  villainous  abominable  misleader  of 
youth,  Falstaff,  that  old  white-bearded  Satan. 

Fal.  My  lord,  the  man  I  know. 

P.  Hen.  I  know  thou  dost. 

Fal.  But  to  say  I  know  more  harm  in  him  than 
in  myself,  were  to  say  more  than  I  know.  That  he 
is  old,  the  more  the  pity,  his  white  hairs  do  witness 
it :  but  that  he  is,  saving  your  reverence,  a  whore- 
master,  that  I  utterly  deny.  If  sack  and  sugar  be  a 
fault,  God  help  the  wicked  !  If  to  be  old  and  merry 
be  a  sin,  then  many  an  old  host  that  I  know  is 
damned  :  if  to  be  fat  be  to  be  hated,  then  Pharaoh's 
lean  kine  are  to  be  loved.  No,  my  good  lord  ;  banish 
Peto,  banish  Bardolph,  banish  Poins  ;  but  for  sweet 
Jack  Falstaff,  kind  Jack  Falstaff,  true  Jack  Falstaff, 
valiant  Jack  Falstaff,  and  therefore  more  valiant, 
being,  as  he  is,  old  Jack  Falstaff,  banish  not  him  thy 
Harry's  company,  banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  com- 
pany, banish  not  him  thy  Harry's  company  :  banish 
plump  Jack,  and  banish  all  the  world. 

W,  Shakespeare, 


218 


Verses  placed  over  the  Door  at  the  Entrance  into 
the  Apollo  Room  at  the  Devil  Tavern         o 

T17ELCOME  all  who  lead  or  follow, 

*  »       To  the  Oracle  of  Apollo- 
Here  he  speaks  out  of  his  pottle, 
Or  the  tripos,  his  tower  bottle  : 
All  his  answers  are  divine, 
Truth  itself  doth  flow  in  wine. 
Hang  up  all  the  poor  hop-drinkers, 
Cries  old  Sim,  the  king  of  skinkers  ; 
He  the  half  of  life  abuses, 
That  sits  watering  with  the  Muses. 
Those  dull  girls  no  good  can  mean  us  ; 
Wine  it  is  the  milk  of  Venus, 
And  the  poet's  horse  accounted  : 
Ply  it,  and  you  all  are  mounted. 
'Tis  the  true  Phcebian  liquor, 
Cheers  the  brain,  makes  wit  the  quicker, 
Pays  all  debts,  cures  all  diseases, 
And  at  once  three  senses  pleases. 
Welcome  all  who  lead  or  follow, 

To  the  Oracle  of  Apollo. 

Benjonson. 


To  Ben  Jonson 


A  H  Ben  ! 

•**•     Say  how  or  when 
Shall  we,  thy  guests, 
219 


Meet  at  those  lyric  feasts, 

Made  at  the  Sun, 
The  Dog,  the  Triple-Tun; 
Where  we  such  clusters  had, 
As  made  us  nobly  wild,  not  mad  ; 

And  yet  each  verse  of  thine 
Out-did  the  meat,  out-did  the  frolic  wine. 

My  Ben  ! 
Or  come  agen, 
Or  send  to  us 
Thy  wits'  great  overplus  ; 

But  teach  us  yet 
Wisely  to  husband  it, 
Lest  we  that  talent  spend  ; 
And  having  once  brought  to  an  end 

That  precious  stock,  the  store 
Of  such  a  wit,  the  world  should  have  no  more. 

Robert  Herrtck. 


The  Mermaid  Tavern         o        *o         o 

O  OULS  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
v— '     What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern? 
Have  ye  tippled  drink  more  fine 
Than  mine  host's  Canary  wine  ? 
Or  are  fruits  of  Paradise 
Sweeter  than  those  dainty  pies 
220 


Of  venison  ?     O  generous  food  ! 
Drest  as  though  bold  Robin  Hood 
Would,  with  his  maid  Marian, 
Sup  and  bowse  from  horn  and  can. 

I  have  heard  that  on  a  day 
Mine  host's  sign-board  flew  away, 
Nobody  knew  whither,  till 
An  astrologer's  old  quill 
To  a  sheep- skin  gave  the  story, — 
Said  he  saw  you  in  your  glory, 
Underneath  a  new  old-sign 
Sipping  beverage  divine, 
And  pledging  with  contented  smack 
The  Mermaid  in  the  Zodiac. 

Souls  of  Poets  dead  and  gone, 
What  Elysium  have  ye  known, 
Happy  field  or  mossy  cavern, 
Choicer  than  the  Mermaid  Tavern  ? 

John  Keats 


Mr.  Gallaspy  *o        o        o        *&•        o 

ALLASPY  was  the  tallest  and  strongest  man  I 
have  ever  seen,  well-made,  and  very  handsome  ; 
had  wit  and  abilities,  sang  well,  and  talked  with  great 
sweetness  and  fluency,  but  was  so  extremely  wicked 
that  it  were  better  for  him  if  he  had  been  a  natural 
fool.  By  his  vast  strength  and  activity,  his  riches  and 

221 


eloquence,  few  things  could  withstand  him.  He  drank 
seven-in-hand — that  is,  seven  glasses  so  placed  between 
the  fingers  of  his  right  hand  that,  in  drinking,  the 
liquor  fell  into  the  next  glasses,  and  thereby  he  drank 
out  of  the  first  glass  seven  glasses  at  once.  This  was 
a  common  thing,  I  find  from  a  book  in  my  possession, 
in  the  reign  of  Charles  IT.,  in  the  madness  that 
followed  the  restoration  of  that  profligate  and  worth- 
less prince.  But  this  gentleman  was  the  only  man  I 
ever  saw  who  could  or  would  attempt  to  do  it ;  and  he 
made  but  one  gulp  of  whatever  he  drank.  He  did 
not  swallow  a  fluid  like  other  people,  but  if  it  was  a 
quart,  poured  it  in  as  from  pitcher  to  pitcher.  When 
he  smoked  tobacco,  he  always  blew  two  pipes  at  once, 
one  at  each  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  threw  the  smoke 
out  at  both  his  nostrils. 

Thomas  Amory. 

("John  Bunde.") 


Glorious  John         o        o        o        o        •& 

"  "JVJAY  but,  my  dear    Master   Halcro,"  said   his 
•*•  ^      hearer,  somewhat  impatiently,  "  I  am  desir- 
ous to  hear  of  your  meeting  with  Dryden." 

"What,  with  glorious  John?  —  true  —  ay  —  where 
was  I  ?  At  the  Wits'  Coffeehouse.  —  Well,  in  at 
the  door  we  got — the  waiters,  and  so  forth,  staring 
at  me ;  for  as  to  Thimblethwaite,  honest  fellow, 
his  was  a  well-known  face.  —  I  can  tell  you  a  story 

about  that " 

222 


"Nay,  but  John  Dryden?"  said  Mordaunt,  in  a 
tone  which  deprecated  farther  digression. 

"Ay,  ay,  glorious  John  —  where  was  I?  —  Well, 
as  we  stood  close  by  the  bar,  where  one  fellow  sat 
grinding  of  coffee,  and  another  putting  up  tobacco 
into  penny  parcels— a  pipe  and  a  dish  cost  just  a 
penny — then  and  there  it  was  that  I  had  the  first  peep 
of  him.  One  Dennis  sat  near  him,  who " 

"Nay,  but  John  Dryden  —  what  like  was  he?" 
demanded  Mordaunt. 

"  Like  a  little  fat  old  man,  with  his  own  grey  hair, 
and  in  a  full-trimmed  black  suit,  that  sat  close  as  a 
glove.  Honest  Thimblethwaite  let  no  one  but  himself 
shape  for  glorious  John,  and  he  had  a  slashing  hand 
at  a  sleeve,  I  promise  you. — There  he  sat  in  his 
suit  of  full  trimmed  black;  two  years  due  was  the 
bill,  as  mine  honest  landlord  afterwards  told  me, — 
and  such  an  eye  in  his  head  ! — none  of  your  burning, 
blighting,  falcon  eyes,  which  we  poets  are  apt  to 
make  a  rout  about, — but  a  soft,  full,  thoughtful,  yet 
penetrating  glance — never  saw  the  like  of  it  in  my 
life,  unless  it  were  little  Stephen  Kleancogg's,  the 
fiddler,  at  Papastow,  who " 

"  Nay,  but  John  Dryden  ?"  said  Mordaunt,  who,  for 
want  of  better  amusement,  had  begun  to  take  a  sort 
of  pleasure  in  keeping  the  old  gentleman  to  his 
narrative,  as  men  herd  a  restive  sheep,  when  they 
wish  to  catch  him.  He  returned  to  his  theme,  with 
his  usual  phrase  of  "  Ay,  true — glorious  John. — Well, 
sir,  he  cast  his  eye,  such  as  I  have  described  it,  on  my 
223 


landlord,  and  'Honest  Tim,'  said  he,  'what  hast  thou 
got  here?'  and  all  the  wits,  and  lords,  and  gentlemen, 
that  used  to  crowd  round  him,  like  the  wenches  round 
a  pedlar  at  a  fair,  they  made  way  for  us,  and  up  we 
came  to  the  fireside,  where  he  had  his  own  established 
chair, —  I  have  heard  it  was  carried  to  the  balcony  in 
summer,  but  it  was  by  the  fireside  when  I  saw  it, — 
so  up  came  Tim  Thimblethwaite,  through  the  midst 
of  them,  as  bold  as  a  lion,  and  I  followed  with  a  small 
parcel  under  my  arm,  which  1  had  taken  up  partly  to 
oblige  my  landlord,  as  the  shop  porter  was  not  in  the 
way,  and  partly  that  I  might  be  thought  to  have 
something  to  do  there,  for  you  are  to  think  there  was 
no  admittance  at  the  Wits'  for  strangers  who  had  no 
business  there. — I  have  heard  that  Sir  Charles  Sedley 
said  a  good  thing  about  that — 

"  Nay,     but     you     forget     glorious     John,"     said 
Mordaunt. 

"  Ay,  glorious  you  may  well  call  him.  They  talk  of 
their  Blackmore,  and  Shadwell,  and  such  like, — not 
fit  to  tie  the  latchets  of  John's  shoes—'  Well,'  he  said 
to  my  landlord,  'what  have  you  got  there?'  and  he, 
bowing,  I  warrant,  lower  than  he  would  to  a  duke, 
said  he  had  made  bold  to  come  and  shew  him  the 
stuff  which  Lady  Elizabeth  had  chose  for  her  night- 
gown.— 'And  which  of  your  geese  is  that,  Tim,  who 
has  got  it  tucked  under  his  wing?' — 'He  is  an 
Orkney  goose,  if  it  please  you,  Mr.  Dryden,'  said 
Tim,  who  had  wit  at  will,  'and  he  hath  brought  you 
a  copy  of  verses  for  your  honour  to  look  at.' — '  Is  he 
224 


amphibious?'  said  glorious  John,  taking  the  paper, 
— and  methought  I  could  rather  have  faced  a  battery 
of  cannon  than  the  crackle  it  gave  as  it  opened,- 
though  he  did  not  speak  in  a  way  to  dash  one 
neither ;— and  then  he  looked  at  the  verses,  and  he 
was  pleased  to  say,  in  a  very  encouraging  way  indeed, 
with  a  sort  of  good-humoured  smile  on  his  face,  and 
certainly  for  a  fat  elderly  gentleman,— for  I  would  not 
compare  it  to  Minna's  smile,  or  Brenda's, — he  had 
the  pleasantest  smile  I  ever  saw, — 'Why,  Tim,'  he 
said,  'this  goose  of  yours  will  prove  a  swan  on  our 
hands.'  With  that  he  smiled  a  little,  and  they  all 
laughed,  and  none  louder  than  those  who  stood  too 
far  off  to  hear  the  jest  ;  for  every  one  knew  when  he 
smiled  there  was  something  worth  laughing  at,  and  so 

took  it  upon  trust. 

Sir  Walter  Scott. 
("  The  Pirate"} 

Dr.  Johnson's  Tavern  Wisdom      o        o        o 

'"T'HERE  is  no  private  house  in  which  people  can 
-*•  enjoy  themselves  so  well  as  at  a  capital  tavern. 
..."  No,  sir  ;  there  is  nothing  which  has  yet  been 
contrived  by  man,  by  which  so  much  happiness  is 
produced  as  by  a  good  tavern  or  inn."  He  then 
repeated,  with  great  emotion,  Shenstone's  lines  1 

"Whoe'er  has  travell'd  life's  dull  round, 
Where'er  his  stages  may  have  been, 
May  sigh  to  think  he  still  has  found 
The  warmest  welcome  at  an  inn." 

p  225 


In  contradiction  to  those  who  have  a  wife  and 
children  prefer  domestick  enjoyments  to  those  which  a 
tavern  affords,  I  have  heard  him  assert,  that  a  tavern 
chair  -was  the  throne  of  human  felicity. — "  As  soon," 
said  he,  "  as  I  enter  the  door  of  a  tavern,  I  experience 
an  oblivion  of  care,  and  a  freedom  from  solicitude  : 
when  I  am  seated  I  find  the  master  courteous,  and  the 
servants  obsequious  to  my  call  ;  anxious  to  know  and 
ready  to  supply  my  wants  :  wine  there  exhilarates  my 
spirits,  and  prompts  me  to  free  conversation,  and  an 
interchange  of  discourse  with  those  I  most  love  :  I 
dogmatise  and  am  contradicted,  and  in  this  conflict 
of  opinions  and  sentiments  I  find  delight." 

James  Boswell. 


Lavengro  at  the  Holy  Lands        *e>        o        o 

T  WAS  now  in  the  Strand,  and,  glancing  about,  I 
•*•  perceived  that  I  was  close  by  an  hotel,  which 
bore  over  the  door  the  somewhat  remarkable  name 
of  Holy  Lands.  Without  a  moment's  hesitation  I 
entered  a  well-lighted  passage,  and,  turning  to  the 
left,  I  found  myself  in  a  well-lighted  coffee-room,  with 
a  well-dressed  and  frizzled  waiter  before  me.  "  Bring 
me  some  claret,"  said  I,  for  I  was  rather  faint  than 
hungry,  and  I  felt  ashamed  to  give  a  humbler  order 
to  so  well-dressed  an  individual.  The  waiter  looked 
at  me  for  a  moment,  then,  making  a  low  bow,  he 
bustled  off,  and  I  sat  myself  down  in  the  box  nearest 
226 


to  the  window.  Presently  the  waiter  returned,  bearing 
beneath  his  left  arm  a  long  bottle,  and  between  the 
fingers  of  his  right  hand  two  large  purple  glasses ; 
placing  the  latter  on  the  table,  he  produced  a  cork- 
screw, drew  the  cork  in  a  twinkling,  set  the  bottle 
down  before  me  with  a  bang,  and  then,  standing  still, 
appeared  to  watch  my  movements.  You  think  I  don't 
know  how  to  drink  a  glass  of  claret,  thought  I  to 
myself.  I'll  soon  show  you  how  we  drink  claret  where 
I  come  from  ;  and,  filling  one  of  the  glasses  to  the 
brim,  I  flickered  it  for  a  moment  between  my  eyes  and 
the  lustre,  and  then  held  it  to  my  nose  ;  having  given 
that  organ  full  time  to  test  the  boquet  of  the  wine,  I 
applied  the  glass  to  my  lips,  taking  a  large  mouthful 
of  the  wine,  which  I  swallowed  slowly  and  by  degrees, 
that  the  palate  might  likewise  have  an  opportunity  of 
performing  its  functions.  A  second  mouthful  I  dis- 
posed of  more  summarily ;  then,  placing  the  empty 
glass  upon  the  table,  I  fixed  my  eyes  upon  the  bottle, 
and  said— nothing  ;  whereupon  the  waiter,  who  had 
been  observing  the  whole  process  with  considerable 
attention,  made  me  a  bow  yet  more  low  than  before, 
and  turning  on  his  heel,  retired  with  a  smart  chuck  of 
his  head,  as  much  as  to  say,  It  is  all  right ;  the  young 

man  is  used  to  claret. 

George  Borrow. 


337 


The  Conniving-House        o         o         o         o 

r  I  "'HE  Conniving-house  (as  the  gentlemen  of  Trinity 
•*-  called  it  in  my  time,  and  long  after)  was  a  little 
public-house,  kept  by  Jack  Macklean,  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  beyond  Ringsend,  on  the  top  of  the  beach, 
within  a  few  yards  of  the  sea.  Here  we  used  to  have 
the  finest  fish  at  all  times  ;  and,  in  the  season,  green 
peas,  and  all  the  most  excellent  vegetables.  The  ale 
here  was  always  extraordinary,  and  everything  the 
best ;  which,  with  its  delightful  situation,  rendered  it 
a  delightful  place  of  a  summer's  evening.  Many  a 
delightful  evening  have  I  passed  in  this  pretty  thatched 
house  with  the  famous  Larry  Grogan,  who  played  on 
the  bagpipes  extremely  well ;  dear  Jack  Lattin,  match- 
less on  the  fiddle,  and  the  most  agreeable  of  com- 
panions ;  that  ever-charming  young  fellow,  Jack  Wall, 
the  most  worthy,  the  most  ingenious,  the  most 
engaging  of  men,  the  son  of  Counsellor  Maurice 
Wall ;  and  many  other  delightful  fellows,  who  went 
in  the  days  of  their  youth  to  the  shades  of  eternity. 
When  I  think  of  them  and  their  evening  songs — "  We 
"will go  to  Johnny  Macklearts,  to  try  if  his  ale  be  good 
or  no"  £c.—  and  that  years  and  infirmities  begin  to 

oppress  me — what  is  life  ? 

Thomas  Amory. 
("John  B uncle.") 


228 


THE  PLAY 


Time  goes,  you  say?    Ah  no ; 
Alas !  Time  stays,  we  go  : 

Or  else,  were  this  not  so, 
What  need  to  chain  the  hours, 
For  youth  were  always  ours  ? 

Time  goes,  you  say?— ah  no  ! 

Austin  Dob  son  (after  Ronsard). 

What's  not  destroy'd  by  Time's  devouring  hand? 
Where's  Troy,  and  where's  the  May-Pole  in  the  Strand? 

James  B  rams  ton. 


What's  past  is  prologue. 

Shakespeare. 


April  30,  1667         o        o         o         *&•         o 

TV  /f  Y  wife  away  down  with  Jane  and  W.  Hewer 
A  to  Woolwich,  in  order  to  a  little  ayre  and 
to  lie  there  to-night,  and  so  to  gather  May-dew 
to-morrow  morning,  which  Mrs.  Turner  hath  taught 
her  is  the  only  thing  in  the  world  to  wash  her  face 
with  ;  and  I  am  contented  with  it.  I  by  water  to 
Fox-hall,  and  there  walked  in  Spring-garden.  A 
great  deal  of  company,  and  the  weather  and  garden 
pleasant  :  and  it  is  very  pleasant  and  cheap  going 
thither,  for  a  man  may  go  to  spend  what  he  will,  or 
nothing,  all  as  one.  But  to  hear  the  nightingale  and 
other  birds,  and  here  fiddles  and  there  a  harp,  and 
here  a  Jew's  trump,  and  here  laughing,  and  there 
fine  people  walking,  is  mighty  divertising. 

Samuel  Pepys. 


On  a  Fly-leaf  of  a  Book  of  Old  Plays       o 

A  T  Cato's  Head  in  Russell  Street 
**•     These  leaves  she  sat  a-stitching  ; 
I  fancy  she  was  trim  and  neat, 
Blue-eyed  and  quite  bewitching. 
231 


Before  her  on  the  street  below, 
All  powder,  ruffs,  and  laces, 

There  strutted  idle  London  beaux 
To  ogle  pretty  faces  ; 

While,  filling  many  a  Sedan  chair 
With  monstrous  hoop  and  feather 

In  paint  and  powder  London's  fair 
Went  trooping  past  together. 

Swift,  Addison,  and  Pope,  mayhap 
They  sauntered  slowly  past  her, 

Or  printer's  boy,  with  gown  and  cap, 
For  Steele,  went  trotting  faster. 

For  beau  nor  wit  had  she  a  look  ; 

Nor  lord  nor  lady  minding, 
She  bent  her  head  above  this  book, 

Attentive  to  her  binding. 

And  one  stray  thread  of  golden  hair, 
Caught  on  her  nimble  fingers, 

Was  stitched  within  this  volume,  where 
Until  to-day  it  lingers. 

Past  and  forgotten,  beaux  and  fair, 
Wigs,  powder,  all  outdated  ; 

A  queer  antique,  the  Sedan  chair, 
Pope,  stiff  and  antiquated. 
232 


Yet  as  I  turn  these  odd  old  plays, 
This  single  stray  lock  finding, 

I'm  back  in  those  forgotten  days, 
And  watch  her  at  her  binding. 

Walter  Learned 


The  Eight-Day  Clock         o        o        o 

"  I  "HE  days  of  Bute  and  Grafton's  fame, 

•••       Of  Chatham's  waning  prime, 
First  heard  your  sounding  gong  proclaim 
Its  chronicle  of  Time  ; 
Old  days  when  Dodd  confessed  his  guilt, 
When  Goldsmith  drave  his  quill, 
And  genial  gossip  Horace  built 
His  house  on  Strawberry  Hill. 

Now  with  a  grave  unmeaning  face 
You  still  repeat  the  tale, 
High-towering  in  your  sombre  case, 
Designed  by  Chippendale  ; 
Without  regret  for  what  is  gone, 
You  bid  old  customs  change, 
As  year  by  year  you  travel  on 
To  scenes  and  voices  strange. 

We  might  have  mingled  with  the  crowd 
Of  courtiers  in  this  hall, 
The  fans  that  swayed,  the  wigs  that  bowed, 
But  you  have  spoiled  it  all ; 
233 


We  might  have  lingered  in  the  train 
Of  nymphs  that  Reynolds  drew, 
Or  stared  spell-bound  in  Drury  Lane 
At  Garrick — but  for  you. 

We  might  in  Leicester  Fields  have  swelled 

The  throng  of  beaux  and  cits, 

Or  listened  to  the  concourse  held 

Among  the  Kitcat  wits  ; 

Have  strolled  with  Selwyn  in  Pall  Mall, 

Arrayed  in  gorgeous  silks, 

Or  in  Great  George  Street  raised  a  yell 

For  Liberty  and  Wilkes. 

This  is  the  life  which  you  have  known, 

Which  you  have  ticked  away, 

In  one  unmoved  unfaltering  tone 

That  ceased  not  day  by  day, 

While  ever  round  your  dial  moved 

Your  hands  from  span  to  span, 

Through  drowsy  hours  and  hours  that  proved 

Big  with  the  fate  of  man. 

A  steady  tick  for  fatal  creeds, 

For  youth  on  folly  bent, 

A  steady  tick  for  worthy  deeds, 

And  moments  wisely  spent ; 

No  warning  note  of  emphasis, 

No  whisper  of  advice, 

No  ruined  rake  or  flippant  misss 

For  coquetry  or  dice. 

234 


You  might,  I  think,  have  hammered  out 
With  meaning  doubly  clear, 
The  midnight  of  a  Vauxhall  rout 
In  Evelina's  ear  ; 

Or  when  the  night  was  almost  gone, 
You  might,  the  deals  between, 
Have  startled  those  who  looked  upon 
The  cloth  when  it  was  green. 

But  no,  in  all  the  vanished  years 

Down  which  your  wheels  have  run, 

Your  message  borne  to  heedless  ears 

Is  one  and  only  one — 

No  wit  of  men,  no  power  of  kings, 

Can  stem  the  overthrow 

Wrought  by  this  pendulum  that  swings 

Sedately  to  and  fro. 

Alfred  Cochrane. 


To  Spring  Gardens  o        -e>        «<£>        <o        o 

"\  1  7"E  were  no  sooner  come  to  the  Temple  Stairs, 
*  *  but  we  were  surrounded  with  a  crowd  of 
watermen,  offering  us  their  respective  services.  Sir 
Roger,  after  having  looked  about  him  very  attentively, 
spied  one  with  a  wooden  leg,  and  immediately  gave 
him  orders  to  get  his  boat  ready.  As  we  were  walk- 
ing towards  it,  "You  must  know,"  says  Sir  Roger,  "  I 

235 


never  make  use  of  anybody  to  row  me  that  has  not 
either  lost  a  leg  or  an  arm.  I  would  rather  bate  him 
a  few  strokes  of  his  oar  than  not  employ  an  honest 
man  that  has  been  wounded  in  the  queen's  service. 
If  I  was  a  lord  or  a  bishop,  and  kept  a  barge,  I  would 
not  put  a  fellow  in  my  livery  that  had  not  a  wooden 
leg." 

My  old  friend,  after  having  seated  himself,  and 
trimmed  the  boat  with  his  coachman,  who,  being  a 
very  sober  man,  always  serves  for  ballast  on  these 
occasions,  we  made  the  best  of  our  way  for  Vauxhall. 
Sir  Roger  obliged  the  waterman  to  give  us  the  history 
of  his  right  leg  ;  and,  hearing  that  he  had  left  it  at  La 
Hogue,  with  many  particulars  which  passed  in  that 
glorious  action,  the  knight,  in  the  triumph  of  his  heart, 
made  several  reflections  on  the  greatness  of  the 
British  nation  ;  as,  that  one  Englishman  could  beat 
three  Frenchmen  ;  that  we  could  never  be  in  danger 
of  popery  so  long  as  we  took  care  of  our  fleet ;  that 
the  Thames  was  the  noblest  river  in  Europe  ;  that 
London  Bridge  was  a  greater  piece  of  work  than  any 
of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world  ;  with  many  other 
honest  prejudices  which  naturally  cleave  to  the  heart 
of  a  true  Englishman. 

After  some  short  pause,  the  old  knight,  turning 
about  his  head  twice  or  thrice,  to  take  a  survey  of 
this  great  metropolis,  bid  me  observe  how  thick  the 
city  was  set  with  churches,  and  that  there  was  scarce 
a  single  steeple  on  this  side  Temple  Bar.  "  A  most 
heathenish  sight ! "  says  Sir  Roger  :  "  there  is  no 
236 


religion  at  this  end  of  the  town.  The  fifty  new 
churches  will  very  much  amend  the  prospect ;  but 
church  work  is  slow,  church  work  is  slow." 

I  do  not  remember  1  have  any  where  mentioned  in 
Sir  Roger's  character,  his  custom  of  saluting  every 
body  that  passes  by  him  with  a  good  morrow,  or  a 
good  night.  This  the  old  man  does  out  of  the  over- 
flowings of  his  humanity  ;  though,  at  the  same  time, 
it  renders  him  so  popular  among  all  his  country 
neighbours,  that  it  is  thought  to  have  gone  a  good 
way  in  making  him  once  or  twice  knight  of  the  shire. 
He  cannot  forbear  this  exercise  of  benevolence  even 
in  town,  when  he  meets  with  any  one  in  his  morning 
or  evening  walk.  It  broke  from  him  to  several  boats 
that  passed  by  us  upon  the  water  ;  but,  to  the  knight's 
great  surprise,  as  he  gave  the  good  night  to  two  or 
three  young  fellows  a  little  before  our  landing,  one  of 
them,  instead  of  returning  the  civility,  asked  us  what 
queer  old  put  we  had  in  the  boat,  and  whether  he  was 
not  ashamed  to  go  a-wenching  at  his  years  ;  with  a 
great  deal  of  the  like  Thames  ribaldry. 

Joseph  A  tidi son. 


On   a   Fan  that  belonged    to  the   Marquise  de 
Pompadour      *&*         -o         o         ^>         -^> 

/CHICKEN-SKIN,  delicate,  white, 
^*-'     Painted  by  Carlo  Vanloo, 
Loves  in  a  riot  of  light, 
237 


Roses  and  vaporous  blue  ; 

Hark  to  the  dainty  frou-frou  ! 
Picture  above,  if  you  can, 

Eyes  that  could  melt  as  the  dew, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 

See  how  they  rise  at  the  sight, 

Thronging  the  CEil  de  Boeuf  through, 
Courtiers  as  butterflies  bright, 

Beauties  that  Fragonard  drew, 

Talon-rouge,  falbala,  queue, 
Cardinal,  Duke, — to  a  man, 

Eager  to  sigh  or  to  sue, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  I 

Ah,  but  things  more  than  polite 

Hung  on  this  toy,  voyez-vons  / 
Matters  of  state  and  of  might, 

Things  that  great  ministers  do  ; 

Things  that,  may  be,  overthrew 
Those  in  whose  brains  they  began 

Here  was  the  sign  and  the  cue, — 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  fan  ! 

ENVOY 

Where  are  the  secrets  it  knew  ? 

Weavings  of  plot  and  of  plan  ? 
— But  where  is  the  Pompadour,  too  ? 
This  was  the  Pompadour's  Fan  ! 

Austin  Dob  son. 
238 


The  Muffin-Man 


A    LITTLE  man,  who  muffins  sold 
**     When  I  was  little  too, 
Carried  a  face  of  giant  mould, 
But  tall  he  never  grew. 

His  arms  were  legs  for  length  and  size. 

His  coat-tail  touch'd  his  heels  ; 
His  brows  were  forests  o'er  his  eyes, 

His  voice  like  waggon-wheels. 

When  fallen  leaves  together  flock, 

And  gusts  begin  to  squall, 
And  suns  go  down  at  six  o'clock, 

You  heard  his  muffin-call. 

Born  in  the  equinoctial  blast, 
He  came  and  shook  his  bell  ; 

And  with  the  equinox  he  pass'd, 
But  whither  none  could  tell. 

Some  thought  the  monster  turn'd  to  dew 
When  muffins  ceased  to  reign, 

And  lay  in  buds  the  summer  through, 
Till  muffin-time  again  ; 

Or  satyr,  used  the  woods  to  rove, 

Or  even  old  Caliban, 
Drawn  by  the  lure  of  oven-stove 

To  be  a  muffin-man. 

239 


The  dwarf  was  not  a  churlish  elf, 
Who  thought  folks  stared  to  scoff; 

But  used  deformity  itself 
To  set  his  muffins  off. 

He  stood  at  doors  and  talk'd  with  cooks 
While  strangers  took  his  span  ; 

And  grimly  smiled  at  childhood's  looks 
On  him,  the  muffin-man. 

When  others  fled  from  nipping  frost, 
And  hid  from  drenching  skies, 

And  when  in  fogs  the  street  was  lost, 
You  saw  his  figure  rise. 

One  night  his  tinkle  did  not  sound, 
He  failed  each  'customed  door ; 

Twas  first  of  an  eternal  round 
Of  nights  he  walk'd  no  more. 

When  borne  in  arms,  my  infant  eye 

In  restless  search  began  ; 
The  nursery- maid  was  wont  to  cry, 

"  See,  John,  the  muffin-man." 

My  path,  with  things  familiar  spread, 
Death's  foot  had  seldom  cross'd, 

And  when  they  said  that  John  was  dead, 
I  stood  in  wonder  lost. 
240 


New  muffin-men,  from  lamp  to  lamp, 

With  careless  glance  I  scan  ; 
For  none  can  ever  raze  thy  stamp, 

O  John,  thou  muffin-man  ! 

Thou  standest  snatch'd  from  time  and  storm, 

A  statue  of  the  soul  ; 
And  round  thy  carved  and  goblin  form 

Past  days — past  days  unroll ! 

We  will  not  part — affection  dim 

This  song  shall  help  to  fan, 
And  memory,  firmer  bound  to  him, 

Shall  keep  her  muffin-man. 

A.J. 


When  we  were  Poor  o         •£>         o         •<> 

"  T  WISH  the  good  old  times  would  come  again," 
-*-  she  said,  "  when  we  were  not  quite  so  rich.  I 
do  not  mean,  that  I  want  to  be  poor ;  but  there  was 
a  middle  state  " — so  she  was  pleased  to  ramble  on — 
"  in  which  I  am  sure  we  were  a  great  deal  happier. 
A  purchase  is  but  a  purchase,  now  that  you  have 
money  enough  and  to  spare.  Formerly  it  used  to  be 
a  triumph.  When  we  coveted  a  cheap  luxury  (and 
O  !  how  much  ado  I  had  to  get  you  to  consent  in 
those  times !) — we  were  used  to  have  a  debate  two 
Q  241 


or  three  days  before,  and  to  weigh  the  for  and  against, 
and  think  what  we  might  spare  it  out  of,  and  what 
saving  we  could  hit  upon,  that  should  be  an  equiva- 
lent. A  thing  was  worth  buying  then,  when  we  felt 
the  money  that  we  paid  for  it.  ...  When  you  came 
home  with  twenty  apologies  for  laying  out  a  less 
number  of  shillings  upon  that  print  after  Lionardo, 
which  we  christened  the  '  Lady  Blanche ' ;  when  you 
looked  at  the  purchase,  and  thought  of  the  money — 
and  thought  of  the  money,  and  looked  again  at  the 
picture — was  there  no  pleasure  in  being  a  poor  man  ? 
Now  you  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  walk  into 
Colnaghi's,  and  buy  a  wilderness  of  Lionardos.  Yet 
do  you?" 

Charles  Lamb. 


The  Last  Leaf        ^>        o        *>        ^> 

T  SAW  him  once  before, 

As  he  passed  by  the  door, 

And  again 

The  pavement  stones  resound, 
As  he  totters  o'er  the  ground 

With  his  cane. 

They  say  that  in  his  prime, 
Ere  the  pruning-knife  of  Time 

Cut  him  down, 
242 


Not  a  better  man  was  found 
By  the  Crier  on  his  round 

Through  the  town. 

But  now  he  walks  the  streets, 
And  he  looks  at  all  he  meets 

Sad  and  wan, 

And  he  shakes  his  feeble  head, 
That  it  seems  as  if  he  said, 

"  They  are  gone.5 

The  mossy  marbles  rest 
On  the  lips  that  he  has  prest 

In  their  bloom, 

And  the  names  he  loved  to  hear 
Have  been  carved  for  many  a  year 

On  the  tomb. 

My  grandmamma  has  said, — 
Poor  old  lady,  she  is  dead 

Long  ago,— 

That  he  had  a  Roman  nose, 
And  his  cheek  was  like  a  rose 

In  the  snow. 

But  now  his  nose  is  thin, 
And  it  rests  upon  his  chin 

Like  a  staff, 

And  a  crook  is  in  his  back, 
And  a  melancholy  crack 

In  his  laugh. 

243 


I  know  it  is  a  sin 
For  me  to  sit  and  grin 

At  him  here ; 

But  the  old  three-cornered  hat, 
And  the  breeches,  and  all  that, 

Are  so  queer ! 

And  if  I  should  live  to  be 
The  last  leaf  upon  the  tree 

In  the  spring, 

Let  them  smile,  as  I  do  now, 
At  the  old  forsaken  bough 

Where  I  cling. 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


244 


LONDON 


"Now  I'm  sick  to  go  'Ome — go  'Ome — go  'Ome!  No,  I 
ain't  m.uninysick,  because  my  uncle  brung  me  up,  but  I'm  sick 
for  London  again  ;  sick  for  the  sounds  of  'er,  an'  the  sights  of 
'er,  and  the  stinks  of  'er ;  orange-peel  and  hasphalte  an'  gas 
comin'  in  over  Vaux'all  Bridge.  Sick  for  the  rail  goin'  down  to 
Box  '111  with  yo«r  gal  on  your  knee  an'  a  new  clay  pipe  in  your 
face.  That,  an'  the  Stran'  lights  where  you  knows  ev'ry  one, 
an'  the  Copper  that  takes  you  up  is  a  old  friend  that  tuk  you 
up  before,  when  you  was  a  little,  smitchy  boy  lying  loose 
'tween  the  Temple  an'  the  Dark  Harches." 

Rudyard  Kipling  via  Stanley  Ortheris. 

LONDON   AND  THE  ARTIST 

And  when  the  evening  mist  clothes  the  riverside  with  poetry, 
as  with  a  veil,  and  the  poor  buildings  lose  themselves  in  the 
dim  sky,  and  the  tall  chimneys  become  campanili,  and  the 
warehouses  are  palaces  in  the  night,  and  the  whole  city  hangs 
in  the  heavens,  and  fairy-land  is  before  us — then  the  wayfarer 
hastens  home  ;  the  working  man  and  the  cultured  one,  the  wise 
man  and  the  one  of  pleasure,  cease  to  understand,  as  they  have 
ceased  to  see,  and  Nature,  who,  for  once,  has  sung  in  tune, 
sings  her  exquisite  song  to  the  artist  alone,  her  son  and  her 
master — her  son  in  that  he  loves  her,  her  master  in  that  he 
knows  her. 

/.  M'Neill  Whistler. 


Walpole's  View       o        o        o        <?•        o 

'"THINK  what  London  would  be,  if  the  chief  houses 
were  in  it,  as  in  the  cities  in  other  countries, 
and  not  dispersed  like  great  rarity-plums  in  a  vast 
pudding  of  country.  Well,  it  is  a  tolerable  place  as  it 
is  !  Were  I  a  physician,  I  would  prescribe  nothing 
but  recipe  ccclxv  drachm.  Londin.  Would  you  know 
why  I  like  London  so  much  ?  Why,  if  the  world 
must  consist  of  so  many  fools  as  it  does,  I  choose 
to  take  them  in  the  gross,  and  not  made  in  separate 
pills,  as  they  are  prepared  in  the  country.  Besides, 
there  is  no  being  alone  but  in  a  metropolis :  the 
worst  place  in  the  world  to  find  solitude  is  the 
country  :  questions  grow  there,  and  that  unpleasant 
Christian  commodity,  neighbours.  .  .  . 

I  am  more  convinced  every  day,  that  there  is  not 
only  no  knowledge  of  the  world  out  of  a  great  city, 
but  no  decency,  no  practicable  society — I  had  almost 
said  not  a  virtue. 

I  revive  after  being  in  London  an  hour,  like  a 
member  of  Parliament's  wife. 

I  am  persuaded  that  it  is  the  dampness  of  this 
247 


climate  that  gives  me  so  much  gout ;  and  London, 
from  the  number  of  fires  and  inhabitants,  must  be 
the  driest  spot  in  the  nation. 

Though  London  increases  every  day,  and  Mr. 
Herschel  has  just  discovered  a  new  square  or  circus 
somewhere  by  the  New  Road  in  the  Via  Lactea, 
where  the  cows  used  to  be  fed,  I  believe  you  will 
think  the  town  cannot  hold  all  its  inhabitants  ;  so 
prodigiously  the  population  is  augmented.  I  have 
been  twice  going  to  stop  my  coach  in  Piccadilly  (and 
the  same  has  happened  to  Lady  Aylesbury),  thinking 
there  was  a  mob ;  and  it  was  only  nymphs  and 
swains  sauntering  or  trudging.  T'other  morning,  i£. 
at  two  o'clock,  I  went  to  see  Mrs.  Garrick  and  Miss 
Hannah  More  at  the  Adelphi,  and  was  stopped  five 
times  before  I  reached  Northumberland  House  ;  for 
the  tides  of  coaches,  chariots,  curricles,  phaetons,  &c., 
are  endless.  Indeed,  the  town  is  so  extended,  that 
the  breed  of  chairs  is  almost  lost ;  for  Hercules  and 
Atlas  could  not  carry  anybody  from  one  end  of  this 
enormous  capital  to  the  other.  How  magnified  would 
be  the  error  of  the  young  woman  at  St.  Helena,  who, 
some  years  ago,  said  to  a  captain  of  an  Indiaman, 
"  I  suppose  London  is  very  empty  when  the  India 
ships  come  out." 

Horace  Walpole. 


248 


Bloomsbury 


~C*OR  me,  for  me,  these  old  retreats 

Amid  the  world  of  London  streets  ! 
My  eye  is  pleased  with  all  it  meets 
In  Bloomsbury. 

I  know  how  prim  is  Bedford  Park, 
At  Highgate  oft  I've  heard  the  lark, 
Not  these  can  lure  me  from  my  ark 
In  Bloomsbury. 

I  know  how  green  is  Peckham  Rye, 
And  Syd'nham,  flashing  in  the  sky, 
But  did  I  dwell  there  I  should  sigh 
For  Bloomsbury. 

I  know  where  Maida  Vale  receives 
The  night  dews  on  her  summer  leav 
Not  less  my  settled  spirit  cleaves 
To  Bloomsbury. 

Some  love  the  Chelsea  river  gales, 
And  the  slow  barges'  ruddy  sails, 
And  these  I'll  woo  when  glamour  fails 
In  Bloomsbury. 

Enough  for  me  in  yonder  square 
To  see  the  perky  sparrows  pair, 
Or  long  laburnum  gild  the  air 
In  Bloomsbury. 

2.49 


Enough  for  me  in  midnight  skies 
To  see  the  moons  of  London  rise, 
And  weave  their  silver  fantasies 
In  Bloomsbury. 

Oh,  mine  in  snows  and  summer  heats, 
These  good  old  Tory  brick-built  'streets  ! 
My  eye  is  pleased  with  all  it  meets 
In  Bloomsbury. 

Wilfred  Whitten. 


Hazlitt's  View          e>         o         o         o         ^> 

T  T  appears  to  me  that  there  is  an  an  iable  mixture 
•*•  of  two  opposite  characters  in  a  person  who 
chances  to  have  passed  his  youth  in  London,  and 
who  has  retired  into  the  country  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  We  may  find  in  such  a  one  a  social  polish,  a 
pastoral  simplicity.  He  rusticates  agreeably,  and 
vegetates  with  a  degree  of  sentiment.  He  comes  to 
the  next  post-town  to  see  for  letters,  watches  the 
coaches  as  they  pass,  and  eyes  the  passengers  with  a 
look  of  familiar  curiosity,  thinking  that  he  too  was 
a  gay  fellow  in  his  time.  He  turns  his  horse's  head 
down  the  narrow  lane  that  leads  homewards,  puts  on 
an  old  coat  to  save  his  wardrobe,  and  fills  his  glass 
nearer  to  the  brim.  As  he  lifts  the  purple  juice  to 
his  lips  and  to  his  eye,  and  in  the  dim  solitude  that 
hems  him  round,  thinks  of  the  glowing  line — 
This  bottle's  the  sun  of  our  table — 
250 


another  sun  rises  upon  his  imagination — the  sun  of 
his  youth,  the  blaze  of  vanity,  the  glitter  of  the 
metropolis,  "glares  round  his  soul,  and  mocks  his 
closing  eyelids/'  the  distant  roar  of  coaches  is  in  his 
ears — the  pit  stare  upon  him  with  a  thousand  eyes — 
Mrs.  Siddons,  Bannister,  King,  are  before  him — he 
starts  as  from  a  dream,  and  swears  he  will  to  London  ; 
but  the  expense,  the  length  of  way  deters  him,  and  he 
rises  the  next  morning  to  trace  the  footsteps  of  the 
hare  that  has  brushed  the  dewdrops  from  the  lawn, 
or  to  attend  a  meeting  of  Magistrates  ! 

Man  in  London  becomes,  as  Mr.  Burke  has  it,  a 
sort  of  "  public  creature."  He  lives  in  the  eye  of  the 
world,  and  the  world  in  his.  If  he  witnesses  less  of 
the  details  of  private  life,  he  has  better  opportunities 
of  observing  its  larger  masses  and  varied  movements. 
He  sees  the  stream  of  human  life  pouring  along  the 
streets — its  comforts  and  embellishments  piled  up  in 
the  shops— the  houses  are  proofs  of  the  industry,  the 
public  buildings  of  the  art  and  magnificence  of  man  ; 
while  the  public  amusements  and  places  of  resort  are 
a  centre  and  support  for  social  feeling.  A  playhouse 
alone  is  a  school  of  humanity,  where  all  eyes  are  fixed 
on  the  same  gay  or  solemn  scene,  where  smiles  or 
tears  are  spread  from  face  to  face,  and  where  a 
thousand  hearts  beat  in  unison  !  Look  at  the  company 
in  a  country  theatre  (in  comparison)  and  see  the  cold- 
ness, the  sullenness,  the  want  of  sympathy,  and  the 
way  in  which  they  turn  round  to  scan  and  scrutinise 


one  another.  In  London  there  is  a  public ;  and  each 
man  is  part  of  it.  We  are  gregarious,  and  affect  the 
kind.  We  have  a  sort  of  abstract  existence  ;  and  a 
community  of  ideas  and  knowledge  (rather  than  local 
proximity)  is  the  bond  of  society  and  good-fellowship. 

I  do  not  think  there  is  anything  deserving  the  name 
of  society  to  be  found  out  of  London  :  and  that  for  the 
two  following  reasons.  First,  there  is  neighbourhood 
elsewhere,  accidental  or  unavoidable  acquaintance  : 
people  are  thrown  together  by  chance  or  grow  together 
like  trees  ;  but  you  can  pick  your  society  nowhere  but 
in  London.  The  very  persons  that  of  all  others  you 
would  wish  to  associate  with  in  almost  every  line  of 
life  (or  at  least  of  intellectual  pursuit)  are  to  be  met 
with  there.  It  is  hard  if  out  of  a  million  of  people 
you  cannot  find  half  a  dozen  to  your  liking.  Indi- 
viduals may  seem  lost  and  hid  in  the  size  of  the 
place  ;  but,  in  fact,  from  this  very  circumstance  you 
are  within  two  or  three  miles'  reach  of  persons  that 
without  it  you  would  be  some  hundreds  apart  from. 

I  like  the  country  very  well,  if  I  want  to  enjoy  my 
own  company  ;  but  London  is  the  only  place  for  equal 
society,  or  where  a  man  can  say  a  good  thing  or 
express  an  honest  opinion  without  subjecting  himself 
to  being  insulted,  unless  he  first  lays  his  purse  on  the 
table  to  back  his  pretensions  to  talent  or  independence 
of  spirit.  I  speak  from  experience. 

London  is  the  only  place  in  which  the  child  grows 

completely  up  into  the  man. 

William  Hazlitt. 
252 


November  Blue 


S~\  HEAVENLY  colour  !  London  town 
^-^      Has  blurred  it  from  her  skies 
And,  hooded  in  an  earthly  brown, 

Unheaven'd  the  city  lies. 
No  longer  standard-like  this  hue 

Above  the  broad  road  flies  ; 
Nor  does  the  narrow  street  the  blue 

Wear,  slender  pennon-wise. 

But  when  the  gold  and  silver  lamps 

Colour  the  London  dew, 
And,  misted  by  the  winter  damps, 

The  shops  shine  bright  anew — 
Blue  comes  to  earth,  it  walks  the  street, 

It  dyes  the  wide  air  through  ; 
A  mimic  sky  about  their  feet, 

The  throng  go  crowned  with  blue. 

Mrs.  Meynell. 


An  Island  of  Quiet  o         o         *£>         o         -s~ 

T  N  Holborn  I  went  through  an  arched  entrance, 
*-  over  which  was  "Staples  Inn."  In  a  court 
opening  inwards  from  this  there  was  a  surrounding 
seclusion  of  quiet  dwelling-houses,  with  beautiful 
green  shrubbery  and  grass-plots  in  the  court,  and  a 
great  many  sun-flowers  in  full  bloom.  The  windows 

253 


were  open  ;  it  was  a  lovely  summer  afternoon,  and 
I  have  a  sense  that  bees  were  humming  in  the  court, 
though  this  may  have  been  suggested  by  my  fancy, 
because  the  sound  would  have  been  so  well  suited  to 
the  scene.  A  boy  was  reading  at  one  of  the  windows. 
There  was  not  a  quieter  spot  in  England  than  this, 
and  it  was  very  strange  to  have  drifted  into  it  so 
suddenly  out  of  the  bustle  a'nd  rumble  of  Holborn  ; 
and  to  lose  all  this  repose  as  suddenly,  on  passing 
through  the  arch  of  the  outer  court.  In  all  the 
hundreds  of  years  since  London  was  built,  it  has  not 
been  able  to  sweep  its  roaring  tide  over  that  little 

island  of  quiet. 

Nathaniel  Hawthorne. 


St.  James's  Street      o        *&•        o        o 

T.  JAMES'S  STREET,  of  classic  fame, 

For  Fashion  still  is  seen  there  : 
St.  James's  street  1     I  know  the  name, 

I  almost  think  I've  been  there  ! 
Why,  that's  where  Sacharissa  sigh'd 

When  Waller  read  his  ditty  ; 
Where  Byron  lived,  and  Gibbon  died, 
And  Alvanley  was  witty. 

A  famous  Street !    To  yonder  Park 
Young  Churchill  stole  in  class-time  : 

Come,  gaze  on  fifty  men  of  mark, 
And  then  recall  the  past  time. 
254 


The  plats  at  White's,  the  play  at  Crock's, 
The  bumpers  to  Miss  Gunning  ; 

The  bonhomis  of  Charley  Fox, 
And  Selwyn's  ghastly  funning. 

The  dear  old  Street  of  clubs  and  cribs, 

As  north  and  south  it  stretches, 
Still  seems  to  smack  of  Rolliad  squibs, 

And  Gillray's  fiercer  sketches  ; 
The  quaint  old  dress,  the  grand  old  style, 

The  mots,  the  racy  stories  ; 
The  wine,  the  dice,  the  wit,  the  bile — 

The  wit  of  Whigs  and  Tories. 

At  dusk,  when  I  am  strolling  there, 

Dim  forms  will  rise  around  me  ; 
Lepel  flits  past  me  in  her  chair, 

And  Congreve's  airs  astound  me  ! 
And  once  Nell  Gwynne,  a  frail  young  Sprite, 

Look'd  kindly  when  I  met  her  ; 
I  shook  my  head,  perhaps, — but  quite 

Forgot  to  quite  forget  her. 

The  Street  is  still  a  lively  tomb 

For  rich,  and  gay,  and  clever  ; 
The  crops  of  dandies  bud  and  bloom, 

And  die  as  fast  as  ever. 
Now  gilded  youth  loves  cutty  pipes, 

And  slang  that's  rather  scaring  ; 
It  can't  approach  its  prototypes 

In  taste,  or  tone,  or  bearing. 

255 


In  Brummell's  day  of  buckle  shoe, 

Lawn  cravats,  and  roll  collars, 
They'd  fight,  and  woo,  and  bet — and  lose, 

Like  gentlemen  and  scholars  : 
I'm  glad  young  men  should  go  the  pace, 

I  half  forgive  Old  Rapid  ; 
These  louts  disgrace  their  name  and  race — 

So  vicious  and  so  vapid  ! 

Worse  times  may  come.     Bon  ton,  indeed, 

Will  then  be  quite  forgotten, 
And  all  we  much  revere  will  speed 

From  ripe  to  worse  than  rotten  : 
Let  grass  then  sprout  between  yon  stones, 

And  owls  then  roost  at  Boodle's, 
For  Echo  will  hurl  back  the  tones 

Of  screaming  Yankee  Doodles. 

I  love  the  haunts  of  old  Cockaigne, 

Where  wit  and  wealth  were  squandered  ; 
The  halls  that  tell  of  hoop  and  train, 

Where  grace  and  rank  have  wander'd  ; 
Those  halls  where  ladies  fair  and  leal 

First  ventured  to  adore  me  ! 
Something  of  that  old  love  I  feel 

For  this  old  Street  before  me. 

f.  Locker  Lamp  son. 


256 


The  Thames  o        o        o        *t>        •& 

HPHE  river  that  we  know  and  love  best  —  the 
•*•  river  that  sums  up  for  us  the  beauty  of  London 
— lies  between  Waterloo  Bridge  and  Chelsea,  and  the 
symbols  of  it  are  the  barges.  Up  and  down  they 
drift  with  the  tide,  or  lie  at  their  moorings,  broad  and 
deep,  grimy,  yet  beautiful  in  their  strong  curves,  laden 
almost  awash  with  all  manner  of  goods  ;  sometimes 
singly,  oftener  in  strings  with  a  noisy  tugboat  puffing 
outrageously  at  the  head  of  the  tow.  But  the  tug  is 
not  doing  the  work  ;  it  is  the  river,  whose  laden  body- 
carries  on  steadfastly  all  these  monstrous  burdens, 
majestic  in  its  motion,  neither  hasting  nor  resting, 
nor  feeling  the  weight.  That  beauty — the  grace  ol 
calm  strength — no  one  can  help  feeling  who  looks 
at  the  stream,  and,  to  gain  a  notion  of  its  force, 
watches  therrace  and  swirl  of  all  that  weight  of  water 
round  the  piers.  But  the  river  is  incomparable  too 
for  the  mere  charm  of  colour  and  line.  You  may  see 
it  yellow  in  the  sun  through  fog,  as  if  it  really  ran 
gold  ;  often  blue  of  a  clear  day  ;  but  .oftenest  of  all, 
and  still  more  beautiful,  a  silver  grey,  just  broken, 
like  a  roughness  on  the  metal,  with  flaws  of  wind  or 
eddies.  It  is  beautiful  too  in  the  dark,  when  you  have 
merely  the  sense  of  its  flow,  and  a  steamer  passes,  its 
red  light  an  eye  in  the  gloom,  its  dark  hull  showing, 
and  behind  that  a  long  trail  of  black  heavy  timber 
boats  scarcely  discerned.  But  the  most  beautiful 
time  of  all,  here  as  elsewhere  in  London,  and  more 
R  257 


beautiful  here  than  anywhere  else,  is  just  in  the  half- 
light  when  the  lamps  are  first  lit. 

Stephen  Ginynn. 


Composed  upon  Westminster  Bridge,  September 
3,  1803  o        o        o        o        <£> 

ARTH  has  not  anything  to  show  more  fair  : 

Dull  would  he  be  of  soul  who  could  pass  by 
A  sight  so  touching  in  its  majesty  : 
This  city  now  doth  like  a  garment  wear 
The  beauty  of  the  morning  ;  silent,  bare, 
Ships,  towers,  domes,  theatres,  and  temples  lie 
Open  unto  the  fields,  and  to  the  sky  ; 
All  bright  and  glittering  in  the  smokeless  air. 
Never  did  sun  more  beautifully  steep 
In  his  first  splendour,  valley,  rock,  or  hill ; 
Ne'er  saw  I,  never  felt,  a  calm  so  deep  ! 
The  river  glideth  at  his  own  sweet  will  : 
Dear  God  !  the  very  houses  seem  ash  ep  ; 
And  all  that  mighty  heart  is  lying  still  ! 

M  'illiam  Wordsworth . 


Ferdinand  discovers  London         e>        ^>        -o 

O EVERAL  hours  had  elapsed,  when,  awaking  from 

**^     a  confused  dream,  in  which  Armine  and  all  he 

had  lately  seen  were  blended  together,  he  found  his 

258 


fellow-travellers  slumbering,  and  the  mail  dashing 
along  through  the  illuminated  streets  of  a  great  city. 
The  streets  were  thickly  thronged.  Ferdinand  stared 
at  the  magnificence  of  the  shops  blazing  with  lights, 
and  the  multitude  of  men  and  vehicles  moving  in  all 
directions.  The  guard  sounded  his  bugle  with 
treble  energy,  and  the  coach  suddenly  turned  through 
an  arched  entrance  into  the  courtyard  of  an  old- 
fashioned  inn.  His  fellow-passengers  started  and 
rubbed  their  eyes. 

"  So  !  We  have  arrived,  I  suppose,"  grumbled  one 
of  these  gentlemen,  taking  off  his  night-cap. 

"  Yes,  gentlemen,  I  am  happy  to  say  our  journey  is 
finished,"  said  a  more  polite  voice,  "and  a  v«.ry 
pleasant  one  I  have  found  it.  Porter,  have  the 
goodness  to  call  me  a  coach." 

'*  And  one  for  me,"  added  a  gruff  voice. 

"  Mr.  Glastonbury,"  whispered  the  awe-struck  Fer- 
dinand, "is  this  London?" 

"  This  is  London  :  but  we  have  yet  two  or  three 
miles  to  go  before  we  reach  our  quarters.  I  think  we 
had  better  alight  and  look  after  our  luggage.  Gentle- 
men, good-evening  ! " 

Mr.  Glastonbury  hailed  a  coach,  into  which,  having 
safely  deposited  their  portmanteaus,  he  and  Ferdinand 
entered  ;  but  our  young  friend  was  so  entirely  over- 
come by  his  feelings  and  the  genius  of  the  place, 
that  he  was  quite  unable  to  make  an  observation. 
Each  minute  the  streets  seemed  to  grow  more 
spacious  and  more  brilliant,  and  the  multitude  more 

259 


dense  and  more  excited.  Beautiful  buildings,  too, 
rose  oefore  him  ;  palaces,  and  churches,  and  streets, 
and  squares  of  imposing  architecture  ;  to  his  inexperi- 
encedeyeandunsophisticatedspirit  their  route  appeared 
a  never-endin0r  triumph.  To  the  hackney-coachman, 
however,  who  had  no  imagination,  and  who  was  quite 
satiated  with  metropolitan  experience,  it  only  appeared 
that  he  had  had  an  exceeding  good  fare,  and  that  he  was 
jogging  up  from  Bishopsgate  Street  to  Charing  Cross. 
...  In  spite  of  the  strange  clatter  in  the  streets, 
Ferdinand  slept  well,  and  the  next  morning,  after  an 
early  breakfast,  himself  and  his  fellow-traveller  set 
out  on  their  peregrinations.  Young  and  sanguine,  full 
of  health  and  enjoyment,  innocent  and  happy,  it  was 
with  difficulty  that  Ferdinand  could  restrain  his 
spirits  as  he  mingled  in  the  bustle  of  the  streets.  It 
was  a  bright,  sunny  morning,  and  although  the  end  of 
June,  the  town  was  yet  quite  full. 

"Is  this  Charing  Cross,  sir?  I  wonder  if  we  shall 
ever  be  able  to  get  over. — Is  this  the  fullest  part  of 
the  town,  sir? — What  a  fine  day,  sir!  How  lucky 
we  are  in  the  weather  ! — We  are  lucky  in  everything  ! 
— Whose  house  is  that  ? — Northumberland  House  !  — 
Is  it  the  Duke  of  Northumberland's? — Does  he  live 
there? — How  I  should  like  to  see  it  !  Is  it  very 
fine  ?— Who  is  that  ?— What  is  this  ?— The  Admiralty  ! 
Oh,  let  me  see  the  Admiralty  ! — The  Horse  Guards  ! — 
Oh  !  where,  where  ?— Let  us  set  our  watches  by  the 
Horse  Guards.  The  guard  of  our  coach  always  sets  his 
watch  by  the  Horse  Guards.  Mr.  Glastonbury,  which 
260 


is  the  best  clock,  the  Horse  Guards  or  St.  Paul's?— Is 
that  the  Treasury  ?  Can  we  go  in  ?— That  is  Downing 
Street,  is  it? — I  never  heard  of  Downing  Street. — 
What  do  they  do  in  Downing  Street  ? — Is  this  Charing 
Cross  still,  or  is  it  Parliament  Street  ?— Where  does 
Charing  Cross  end,  and  where  does  Parliament  Street 
begin  ?  By  Jove,  I  see  Westminster  Abbey  ! " 

B.  Disraeli. 
( ' '  Henrietta  Temple. " ) 


The  City  at  Night  o         o         o         o         o 

"  /1CH,  mein  Lieber!"  said  he  once,  at  midnight, 
•*^  when  we  had  returned  from  the  Coffee-house 
in  rather  earnest  talk,  "it  is  true  sublimity  to  dwell 
"here.  These  fringes  of  lamplight,  struggling  up 
"through  smoke  and  thousandfold  exhalation,  some 
"fathoms  into  the  ancient  reign  of  Night,  what 
"thinks  Bootes  of  them,  as  he  leads  his  Hunting- 
"  Dogs  over  the  Zenith  in  their  leash  of  sidereal 
"fire?  That  stifled  hum  of  Midnight,  when  Traffic 
"  has  lain  down  to  rest  ;  and  the  chariot-wheels  of 
"Vanity,  still  rolling  here  and  there  through  distant 
"streets,  are  bearing  her  to  Halls  roofed-in,  and 
"lighted  to  the  due  pitch  for  her ;  and  only  Vice  and 
"Misery,  to  prowl  or  to  moan  like  nightbirds,  are 
"abroad  :  that  hum,  I  say,  like  the  stertorous,  unquiet 
"slumber  of  sick  Life,  is  heard  in  Heaven!  Oh. 
261 


"under  that  hideous  coverlet  of  vapours,  and  putre- 
"  factions,  and  unimaginable  gases,  what  a  Ferment- 
"  ing- vat  lies  simmering  and  hid  !  The  joyful  and 
"  the  sorrowful  are  there ;  men  are  dying  there,  men 
"  are  being  born  ;  men  are  praying, — on  the  other 
"  side  of  a  brick  partition,  men  are  cursing  ;  and 
"around  them  all  is  the  vast,  void  Night.  The 
"  proud  Grandee  still  lingers  in  his  perfumed  saloons, 
"or  reposes  within  damask  curtains  ;  Wretchedness 
"cowers  into  truckle-beds,  or  shivers  hunger-stricken 
"  into  its  lair  of  straw :  in  obscure  cellars,  Rouge 
"  et  Noir  languidly  emits  its  voice-of-destiny  to 
"haggard  hungry  Villains;  while  Councillors  of  State 
"sit  plotting,  and  playing  their  high  chess-game, 
"whereof  the  pawns  are  Men.  The  Lover  whispers 
"  his  mistress  that  the  coach  is  ready  ;  and  she,  full  of 
"  hope  and  fear,  glides  down,  to  fly  with  him  over  the 
"borders:  the  Thief,  still  more  silently,  sets-to  his 
"picklocks  and  crowbars,  or  lurks  in  wait  till  the 
"watchmen  first  snore  in  their  boxes.  Gay  mansions, 
"with  supper-rooms  and  dancing-rooms,  are  full  of 
"  light  and  music  and  high-swelling  hearts  ;  but,  in 
"  the  Condemned  Cells,  the  pulse  of  life  beats  tremu- 
"  lous  and  faint,  and  blood-shot  eyes  look  out  through 
"the  darkness,  which  is  around  and  within,  for  the 
"light  of  a  stern  last  morning.  Six  men  are  to  be 
"hanged  on  the  morrow  :  comes  no  hammering  from 
"the  Rabenstein? — their  gallows  must  even  now  be 
"o"  building.  Upwards  of  five -hundred -thousand 
"  two-legged  animals  without  feathers  lie  round  us,  in 
262 


"  horizontal  position  ;  their  heads  all  in  nightcaps,  and 
"full  of  the  foolishest  dreams.  Riot  cries  aloud,  and 
"staggers  and  swaggers  in  his  rank  dens  of  shame  ; 
"and  the  Mother,  with  streaming  hair,  kneels  over 
"her  pallid  dying  infant,  whose  cracked  lips  only  her 
"tears  now  moisten. — All  these  heaped  and  huddled 
"together,  with  nothing  but  a  little  carpentry  and 
"masonry  between  them  ;  — crammed  in,  like  salted 
"fish  in  their  barrel  ; — or  weltering,  shall  I  say,  like 
"an  Egyptian  pitcher  of  tamed  vipers,  each  struggling 
"  to  get  its  head  above  the  others  :  such  work  goes 
"on  under  that  smoke-counterpane! — But  I,  mein 
"  ll'erther,  sit  above  it  all;  I  am  alone  with  the 

"  Stars." 

Thomas  Carlyle. 
("  Sartor  A'esartus.") 


A  Song  of  Fleet  Street       *>        <&        o        o 

T^LEET  STREET!  Fleet  Street!  Fleet  Street  in 
•*•        the  morning, 
With  the  old  sun  laughing  out  behind  the  dome  o( 

Paul's, 

Heavy  wains  a-driving,  merry  winds  a-striving, 
White   clouds    and    blue  sky  above    the    smoke 
stained  walls. 

Fleet  Street !  Fleet  Street !  Fleet  Street  in  the  noontide, 
East  and  west  the  streets  packed  close,  and  roaring 
like  the  sea  ; 

263 


With  laughter  and  with  sobbing  we  feel  the  world's 

heart  throbbing, 

And  know  that  what  is  throbbing  is  the  heart  of  you 
and  me. 

Fleet  Street  !  Fleet  Street  !  Fleet  Street  in  the  evening, 
Darkness  set  with  golden  lamps  down  Ludgate  Hill 

a- row  : 
Oh  !  hark  the  voice  o'  th'  city  that  breaks  our  hearts 

with  pity, 

That  crazes  us  with  shame  and  wrath,  and  makes 
us  love  her  so. 

Fleet  Street  !  Fleet  Street !  morning,  noon,  and  star- 
light, 
Through  the   never-ceasing   roar  come   the   great 

chimes  clear  and  slow  ; 
"  Good  are  life  and  laughter,  though  we  look  before 

and  after, 

And  good  to  love  the  race  of  men  a  little  ere  we  go.'; 

Alice  Werner. 


264 


TWO  LONDONERS: 
JOHNSON  AND  HIS  BOSWELL 


Johnson  grown  old,  Johnson  in  the  fulness  ot  his  fame  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  a  competent  fortune,  is  better  known  to  us 
than  any  other  man  in  history.  Every  thing  about  him,  his 
coat,  his  wig,  his  figure,  his  face,  his  scrofula,  his  St.  Vitus's 
dance,  his  rolling  walk,  his  blinking  eye,  the  outward  signs 
which  too  clearly  marked  his  approbation  of  his  dinner,  his 
insatiable  appetite  for  fish-sauce  and  veal-pie  with  plums,  his 
inextinguishable  thirst  for  tea,  his  trick  of  touching  the  posts  as 
he  walked,  his  mysterious  practice  of  treasuring  up  scraps  of 
orange-peel,  his  morning  slumbers,  his  mid-night  disputations, 
his  contortions,  his  mutterings,  his  gruntings,  his  puffings,  his 
vigorous,  acute,  and  ready  eloquence,  his  sarcastic  wit,  his 
vehemence,  his  insolence,  his  fits  of  tempestuous  rage,  his  queer 
inmates,  old  Mr.  Levett  and  blind  Mrs.  Williams,  the  cat 
Hodge  and  the  negro  Frank,  all  are  as  familiar  to  us  as  the 
objects  by  which  we  have  been  surrounded  from  childhood. 

T,  B,  Macaulay, 


Two  Londoners       e>        •&        o        o        ^> 

I 

T  WISHED  to  make  my  chief  residence  in  London, 
the   great   scene    of    ambition,   instruction,  and 
amusement  •  a  scene  which  was  to  me,  comparatively 
speaking,  a  heaven  upon  earth. 

Johnson.  "  Why,  sir,  I  never  knew  any  one  who  had 
such  a  gust  for  London  as  y.m  have,  and  yet  I  cannot 
blame  you  for  your  wish  to  live  there." 

I  suggested  a  doubt,  that  if  I  were  to  reside  in 
London,  the  exquisite  zest  with  which  I  relished  it 
in  occasional  visits  might  go  off,  and  I  might  grow 
tired  of  it. 

Johnson,  "Why,  sir,  you  find  no  man,  at  all  intel- 
lectual, who  is  willing  to  leave  London.  No,  sir, 
when  a  man  is  tired  of  London,  he  is  tired  of  life  ; 
for  there  is  in  London  all  that  life  can  afford." 

II 

Johnson.  "  If  a  man  walks  out  in  the  country,  there 
is  nobody  to  keep  him  from  walking  in  again  ;  but 
if  a  man  walks  out  in  London,  he  is  not  sure  when 
267 


he  shall  walk  in  again.  A  great  city  is,  to  be  sure, 
the  school  for  studying  life  ;  and  '  The  proper  study 
of  mankind  is  man,'  as  Pope  observes." 

Bosivell.  "  I  fancy  London  is  the  best  place  for 
Society:" 

III 

We  dined  tete-&-tete  at  the  Mitre.  ...  I  regretted 
much  leaving  London,  where  I  had  formed  many 
agreeable  connections.  "  Sir,"  said  he,  "  I  don't 
wonder  at  it :  no  man  fond  of  letters  leaves  London 
without  regret." 

IV 

Talking  of  a  London  life,  he  said,  "  The  happiness 
of  London  is  not  to  be  conceived  but  by  those  who 
have  been  in  it.  I  will  venture  to  say,  there  is  more 
learning  and  science  within  the  circumference  of  ten 
miles  from  where  we  now  sit,  than  in  all  the  rest  of 
the  kingdom." 

Bosivell.  "The  only  disadvantage  is,  the  great 
distance  at  which  people  live  from  one  another." 

Johnson.  "  Yes,  sir ;  but  that  is  occasioned  by  the 
largeness  of  it,  which  is  the  cause  of  all  the  other 
advantages." 

V 

It  having  been  observed  that  there  was  little 
hospitality  in  London  ; 

Johnson.  "  Nay,  sir,  any  man  who  has  a  name,  or 
who  has  the  power  of  pleasing,  will  be  very  generally 
invited  in  London." 

268 


VI 

We  walked  in  the  evening  in  Greenwich  Park.  He 
asked  me,  I  suppose  by  way  of  trying  my  disposition, 
"  Is  not  this  very  fine?"  Having  no  exquisite  rel.sh 
of  the  beauties  of  nature,  and  being  more  delighted 
with  "the  busy  hum  of  men,"  I  answered,  "Yes,  sir; 
but  not  equal  to  Fleet-street." 

Johnson.  "You  are  right,  sir." 


VII 

Johnson.  "...  A  man  cannot  know  modes  of  life 
as  well  in  Minorca  as  in  London,  but  he  may  study 
mathematicks  as  well  in  Minorca.1'  .  .  . 

Boswell.  "  I  own,  sir,  the  spirits  which  I  have  in 
London  make  me  do  everything  with  more  readiness 
and  vigour.  I  can  talk  twice  as  much  in  London  as 
anywhere  else." 

VIII 

fohnson.  "...  Let  us  take  a  walk  from  Charing- 
cross  to  White-chapel,  through,  I  suppose,  the  greatest 
series  of  shops  in  the  world.  What  is  there  in  any  of 
these  shops  (if  you  except  gin-shops)  that  can  do  any 
human  being  any  harm  ': " 

Goldsmith.  "Well,  sir,  I'll  accept  your  challenge. 
The  very  next  shop  to  Northumberland-house  is  a 
pickle-shop." 

Johnson.  "  Well,  sir ;  do  we  not  know  that  a  maid 
269 


can,  in  one  afternoon,  make  pickles  sufficient  to  serve 
a  whole  family  for  a  year  ?  nay,  that  five  pickle-shops 
can  serve  all  the  kingdom.  Besides,  sir,  there  is  no 
harm  done  to  anybody  by  the  making  of  pickles,  or 
the  eating  of  pickles." 

IX 

Johnson  was  much  attached  to  London  :  he 
observed,  that  a  man  stored  his  mind  better  there 
than  any  where  else  ;  and  that  in  remote  situations 
a  man's  body  might  be  feasted,  but  his  mind  was 
starved,  and  his  faculties  apt  to  degenerate,  from 
want  of  exercise  and  competition.  No  place,  he 
said,  cured  a  man's  vanity  and  arrogance  so  well 
as  London  ;  for  as  no  man  was  either  great  or  good 
per  se, — but  as  compared  with  others  not  so  good  or 
great,  he  was  sure  to  find  in  the  metropolis  many  his 
equals,  and  some  his  superiors.  He  observed,  that  a 
man  in  London  was  in  less  danger  of  falling  in  love 
indiscreetly,  than  any  where  else  ;  for  there  the 
difficulty  of  deciding  between  the  conflicting  pre- 
tensions of  a  vast  variety  of  objects  kept  him  safe. 
He  told  me  he  had  frequently  been  offered  country 
preferment,  if  he  would  consent  to  take  Orders  ;  but 
that  he  could  not  leave  the  improved  society  of  the 
capital,  or  consent  to  exchange  the  exhilarating  joys 
and  splendid  decorations  of  public  life,  for  the 
obscurity,  insipidity,  and  uniformity  of  remote 
situations. 


270 


X 

Once,  upon  reading  that  line  in  the  curious  epitaph 
quoted  in  the  Spectator, 

Born  in  New  England,  did  in  London  die ; 

he  laughed,  and  said,  "  I  do  not  wonder  at  this.  It 
would  have  been  strange,  if,  born  in  London,  he  had 
died  in  New  England." 

XI 

Bos-well.  "...  The  airs  in  '  The  Beggars'  Opera,' 
many  of  which  are  very  soft,  never  fail  to  render 
me  gay,  because  they  are  associated  with  the  warm 
sensations  and  high  spirits  of  London." 

XII 

"Johnson.  London  is  nothing  to  some  people  ;  but 
to  a  man  whose  pleasure  is  intellectual,  London  is  the 
place.  And  there  is  no  place  where  economy  can  be  so 
well  practised  as  in  London  :  more  can  be  had  here  for 
the  money,  even  by  ladies,  than  any  where  else.  You 
cannot  play  tricks  with  your  fortune  in  a  small  place, 
you  must  make  a  uniform  appearance.  Here  a  lady 
may  have  well-furnished  apartments,  and  elegant 
dress,  without  any  meat  in  her  kitchen."  I  was 
amused  by  considering  with  how  much  ease  and 
coolness  he  could  write  or  talk  to  a  friend,  exhorting 
him  not  to  suppose  that  happiness  was  not  to  be 
found  in  other  places  as  in  London  ;  when  he  himself 
271 


was  at  all  times  sensible  of  its  being,  comparatively 
speaking,  a  heaven  upon  earth.  The  truth  is,  that  by 
those  who  from  sagacity,  attention,  and  experience 
have  learnt  the  full  advantage  of  London,  its  pre- 
eminence over  every  other  place,  not  only  for  variety 
of  enjoyment,  but  for  comfort,  will  be  felt  with  a 
philosophical  exultation.  The  freedom  from  remark 
and  petty  censure  with  which  life  may  be  passed 
there,  is  a  circumstance  which  a  man  who  knows 
the  teasing  restraint  of  a  narrow  circle  must  value 
highly.  Mr.  Burke,  whose  orderly  and  amiable 
domestick  habits  might  make  the  eye  of  observation 
less  irksome  to  him  than  to  most  men,  said  once  very 
pleasantly  in  my  hearing,  "  Though  I  have  the  honour 
to  represent  Bristol,  I  should  not  like  to  live  there  ;  I 
should  be  obliged  to  be  so  much  upon  my  good 
behaviour"  In  London,  a  man  may  live  in  splendid 
society  at  one  time,  and  in  frugal  retirement  at 
another,  without  animadversion.  There,  and  there 
alone,  a  man's  own  house  is  truly  his  castle,  in  which 
he  can  be  in  perfect  safety  from  intrusion  whenever 
he  pleases.  I  never  shall  forget  how  well  this  was 
expressed  to  me  one  day  by  Mr.  Meynell :  "  The 
chief  advantage  of  London,"  said  he,  "  is,  that  a  man 
is  always  so  near  his  burrow" 

XIII 

Talking  of  London,  he  observed,  "  Sir,  if  you  wish 
to  have  a  just  notion  of  the  magnitude  of  this  city 
you  must  not  be  satisfied  with  seeing  its  great  streets 
272 


and  squares,  but  must  survey  the  innumerable  little 
lanes  and  courts.  It  is  not  in  the  showy  evolutions  of 
buildings,  but  in  the  multiplicity  of  human  habitations 
which  are  crowded  together,  that  the  wonderful 
immensity  of  London  consists." 

XIV 

Dr.  Johnson,  on  his  return  to  town  in  1762 :—"  I 
wandered  about  for  five  days,  and  took  the  first  con- 
venient opportunity  of  returning  to  a  place  where,  if 
there  is  not  much  happiness,  there  is,  at  least,  such 
a  diversity  of  good  and  evil,  that  slight  vexations  do 
not  fix  upon  the  heart." 

XV 

He  said,  a  country  gentleman  should  bring  his  lady 
to  visit  London  as  soon  as  he  can,  that  they  may  have 
agreeable  topics  for  conversation  when  they  are  by 
themselves. 

XVI 
Johnson.  "  London  is  a  good  air  for  ladies." 

XVII 

Such  was  his  love  of  London,  so  high  a  relish  had 
he  of  its  magnificent  extent,  and  variety  of  intellectual 
entertainment,  that  he  languished  when  absent  from 
it,  his  mind  having  become  quite  luxurious  from  the 
long  habit  of  enjoying  the  Metropolis  ;  ...  he  still 
found  that  such'conversation  as  London  affords  could 
be  found  nowhere  else. 

s  273 


XVIII 

He  said  he  was  engaged  to  go  out  in  the  morning. 
"  Early,  sir?"  said  I. 

Johnson.  "Why,  sir,  a  London  morning  does  not 
go  with  the  sun." 

XIX 

It  was  a  delightful  day :  as  we  walked  to  St. 
Clement's  church,  I  again  remarked  that  Fleet-street 
was  the  most  cheerful  scene  in  the  world.  "  Fleet- 
street,"  said  I,  "  is  in  my  mind  more  delightful  than 
Tempe." 

Johnson.  "Aye,  sir." 


274 


GOOD  TOWNSMEN 


.  .  .  Where  soft  joys  prevail,  where  people  are  convoked  to 
pleasure  and  the  philosopher  looks  on  smiling  and  silent,  where 
love  and  laughter  and  deifying  wine  abound,  .  .  . 

Many  of  the  wisest,  most  virtuous,  and  most  beneficent  parts 
that  are  to  be  played  upon  the  Theatre  of  Life  are  filled  by 
gratuitous  performers,  and  pass,  among  the  world  at  large,  as 
phases  of  idleness. 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson, 


Jolly  Jack 


\  \  7HEN  fierce  political  debate 

Throughout  the  isle  was  storming, 
And  Rads  attacked  the  throne  and  state, 

And  Tories  the  reforming  : 
To  calm  the  furious  rage  of  each, 

And  right  the  land  demented, 
Heaven  sent  us  Jolly  Jack,  to  teach 

The  way  to  be  contented. 

Jack's  bed  was  straw,  'twas  warm  and  soft, 

His  chair,  a  three-legged  stool  ; 
His  broken  jug  was  emptied  oft, 

Yet,  somehow,  always  full. 
His  mistress'  portrait  decked  the  wall, 

His  mirror  had  a  crack  ; 
Yet,  gay  and  glad,  though  this  was  all 

His  wealth,  lived  Jolly  Jack. 

To  give  advice  to  avarice, 
Teach  pride  its  mean  condition, 

And  preach  good  sense  to  dull  pretence, 
Was  honest  Jack's  high  mission. 
277 


Our  simple  statesman  found  his  rule 

Of  moral  in  the  flagon, 
And  held  his  philosophic  school 

Beneath  the  "George  and  Dragon." 

When  village  Solons  cursed  the  Lords, 

And  called  the  malt-tax  sinful, 
Jack  heeded  not  their  angry  words, 

But  smiled  and  drank  his  skinful. 
And  when  men  wasted  health  and  life 

In  search  of  rank  and  riches, 
Jack  marked  aloof  the  paltry  strife, 

And  wore  his  threadbare  breeches. 

"  I  enter  not  the  Church,"  he  said, 

"  But  I'll  not  seek  to  rob  it ; " 
So  worthy  Jack  Joe  Miller  read, 

While  others  studied  Cobbett. 
His  talk  it  was  offcast  and  fun, 

His  guide  the  Almanack  ; 
From  youth  to  age  thus  gaily  run 

The  life  of  Jolly  Jack. 

And  when  Jack  prayed,  as  oft  he  would; 

He  humbly  thanked  his  Maker, 
"  I  am,"  said  he,  "  O  Father  good  ! 

Nor  Catholic  nor  Quaker  : 
Give  each  his  creed,  let  each  proclaim 

His  catalogue  of  curses  ; 
I  trust  in  Thee,  and  not  in  them, 

In  Thee  and  in  Thy  mercies  ! 
278 


"Forgive  me  if,  midst  all  Thy  works, 

No  hint  I  see  of  damning, 
And  think  there's  faith  among  the  Turks, 

And  hope  for  e'en  the  Brahmin. 
Harmless  my  mind  is  and  my  mirth, 

And  kindly  is  my  laughter  ; 
I  cannot  see  the  smiling  earth, 

And  think  there's  hell  hereafter." 

Jack  died  ;  he  left  no  legacy, 

Save  that  his  story  teaches  : — 
Content  to  peevish  poverty  ; 

Humility  to  riches. 
Ye  scornful  great,  ye  envious  small, 

Come  follow  in  his  track  ; 
We  all  were  happier,  if  we  all 

Would  copy  Jolly  Jack. 

W.  M.  Thackeray. 


The  Travelling  Tailor        ^        &•        o        o 

/^\UR  meal  being  ended,  my  companion  took  his 
pipe ;  and  we  laid  our  heads  together  for  the 
good  of  the  nation,  when  we  mauled  the  French 
terribly  both  by  land  and  sea.  At  last,  among  other 
talk,  he  happened  to  ask  me,  if  I  lived  in  the  city? 
As  I  was  desirous  of  hearing  his  remarks,  I  answered 
that  I  had  never  seen  London.  "Never  seen  it?" 
says  he.  "  Then  you  have  never  seen  one  of  the  finest 

279 


sights  in  the  whole  world.  Paris  is  but  a  dog-hole  to 
it."  There  luckily  hung  a  large  map  of  London  over 
the  chimney-piece,  which  he  immediately  made  me 
get  from  my  chair  to  look  at.  "There,"  says  he, 
"there's  London  for  you. — You  see  it  is  bigger  than 
the  map  of  all  England."  He  then  led  me  about, 
with  the  end  of  his  pipe,  through  all  the  principal 
streets  from  Hyde-Park  to  Whitechapel.— "  That," 
says  he,  "is  the  River  Thames — There's  London 
Bridge — There  my  Lord  Mayor  lives— That's  Poule's 
— There  the  Monument  stands  :  and  now,  if  you  was 
but  on  the  top  of  it,  you  might  see  all  the  houses  and 
churches  in  London."  I  expressed  my  astonishment 
at  every  particular  ;  but  I  could  hardly  refrain  laugh- 
ing, when,  pointing  out  to  me  Lincoln's-Inn  Fields — 
"  There,"  said  he,  "  there  all  the  noblemen  live."  At 
last,  after  having  transported  me  all  over  the  town,  he 
set  me  down  in  Cheapside,  "  which,"  he  said,  "  was  the 
biggest  street  in  the  city. — And  now,"  says  he,  "  I'll 
show  you  where  I  live. — That's  Bow  church — and 
thereabouts — where  my  pipe  is — there — just  there  my 
shop  stands."  He  concluded  with  a  kind  invitation  to 
me  to  come  and  see  him  ;  and,  pulling  out  a  book  of 
patterns  from  his  coat  pocket,  assured  me,  that  if  I 
wanted  any  thing  in  his  way,  he  could  afford  to  let  me 

have  a  bargain. 

"  The  Connoisseur? 


280 


Beau  Tibbs  <?>        o        <?•        o        <?>        <? 

"AH!  Tibbs,  thou  art  an  happy  fellow,"  cried  my 
**•  companion,  with  looks  of  infinite  pity ;  "  I 
hope  your  fortune  is  as  much  improved  as  your 
understanding  in  such  company?"  "Improved, 
(replied  the  other,)  you  shall  know,  —  but  let  it  go 
no  farther, — a  great  secret, — five  hundred  a-year  to 
begin  with. — My  lord's  word  of  honour  for  it— his 
lordship  took  me  down  in  his  own  chariot  yester- 
day, and  we  had  a  tcte-ti-tete  dinner  in  the  country, 
where  we  talked  of  nothing  else." — "  I  fancy,  you 
forgot,  sir,  (cried  I,)  you  told  us  but  this  moment  of 
your  dining  yesterday  in  town." — "Did  I  say  so? 
(replied  he  coolly,)  to  be  sure,  if  I  said  so,  it  was  so. 
— Dined  in  town  !  egad,  now  I  do  remember  I  did 
dine  in  town  ;  but  I  dined  in  the  country  too  ;  for  you 
must  know,  my  boys,  I  eat  two  dinners.  By  the  bye, 
I  am  grown  as  nice  as  the  devil  in  my  eating.  I  will 
tell  you  a  pleasant  affair  about  that.  We  were  a  select 
party  of  us  to  dine  at  Lady  Grogram's,  an  affected 
piece  ;  but  let  it  go  no  farther  ;  a  secret ;  well,  there 
happened  to  be  no  assafoetida  in  the  sauce  to  a 
turkey ;  upon  which  says  I,  I  will  hold  a  thousand 
guineas,  and  say  done  first,  that — But,  dear  Drybone, 
you  are  an  honest  creature,  lend  me  half  a  crown  for 
a  minute  or  two,  or  so,  just  till — But,  harkee,  ask  me 
for  it  the  next  time  we  meet,  or  may  be  twenty  to  one 
but  I  forget  to  pay  you."  .  .  . 

My  little  beau  yesterday  overtook  me  ayain  in  one 
281 


of  the  public  walks,  and  slapping  me  on  the  shoulder, 
saluted  me  with  an  air  of  the  most  perfect  familiarity. 
His  dress  was  the  same  as  usual,  except  that  he  had 
more  powder  in  his  hair,  wore  a  dirtier  shirt,  a  pair  of 
temple  spectacles,  and  his  hat  under  his  arm. 

As  I  knew  him  to  be  a  harmless,  amusing  little 
thing,  I  could  not  return  his  smiles  with  any  degree 
of  severity ;  so  we  walked  forward  on  terms  of  the 
utmost  intimacy,  and  in  a  few  minutes  discussed  all 
the  usual  topics  preliminary  to  particular  conversatii  n. 

The  oddities  that  marked  his  character,  however. 
soon  began  to  appear :  he  bowed  to  several  well- 
dressed  persons,  who,  by  their  manner  of  returning 
the  compliment,  appeared  to  be  strangers.  At 
intervals  he  drew  out  a  pocket-book,  seeming  to  make 
memorandums,  before  all  the  company,  with  much 
importance  and  assiduity.  In  this  manner  he  led  me 
through  the  length  of  the  whole  walk,  fretting  al  his 
absurdities,  and  fancying  myself  laughed  at  not  less 
than  him  by  every  spectator. 

When  we  were  got  to  the  end  of  our  procession, 
"  Blast  me,  (cries  he,  with  an  air  of  vivacity,)  I  never 
saw  the  park  so  thin  in  my  life  before :  there's  no 
company  at  all  to-day.  Not  a  single  face  to  be  seen." 
"  No  company,  (interrupted  I  peevishly,)  no  company 
where  there  is  such  a  crowd  !  Why,  man,  there's  too 
much.  What  are  the  thousands  that  have  been 
laughing  at  us,  but  company  ! "  "  Lord,  my  dear, 
(returned  he,  with  the  utmost  good  humour,)  you 
seem  immensely  chagrined  ;  but,  blast  me,  when  the 
282 


world  laughs  at  me,  I  laugh  at  the  world,  and  so  we 
are  even.  My  Lord  Trip,  Bill  Squash,  the  Creolian, 
and  I,  sometimes  make  a  party  at  being  ridiculous : 
and  so  we  say  and  do  a  thousand  things  for  the  joke- 
sake.  But  I  see  you  are  grave,  and  if  you  are  for 
a  fine,  grave,  sentimental  companion,  you  shall  dine 
with  me  and  my  wife  to-day — I  must  insist  on  it.  I 
will  introduce  you  to  Mrs.  Tibbs,  a  lady  of  elegant 
qualifications  as  any  in  nature  ;  she  was  bred,  but 
that's  between  ourselves,  under  the  inspection  of  the 
Countess  of  All-night.  A  charming  body  of  voice ; 
but  no  more  of  that,  she  shall  give  us  a  song.  You 
shall  see  my  little  girl,  too,  Carolina  Wilhelmina 
Amelia  Tibbs,  a  sweet  pretty  creature.  I  design  her 
for  my  Lord  Drumstick's  eldest  son ;  but  that's  in 
friendship,  let  it  go  no  farther ;  she's  but  six  years 
old,  and  yet  she  walks  a  minuet,  and  plays  on  the 
guitar  immensely  already.  I  intend  she  shall  be  as 
perfect  as  possible  in  every  accomplishment.  In  the 
first  place,  I  will  make  her  a  scholar  ;  I  will  teach  her 
Greek  myself,  and  learn  that  language  purposely  to 
instruct  her  ;  but  let  that  be  a  secret." 

Oliver  Goldsmith. 


Charles  Lamb         •&>        •&        o        •*>        <> 

HPHERE  was  Lamb  himself,  the  most  delightful, 

-L      the  most  provoking,  the  most  witty  and  sensible 

of  men.     He  always  made  the  best  pun,  and  the  best 

283 


remark  in  the  course  of  the  evening.  His  serious 
conversation,  like  his  serious  writing,  is  his  best.  No 
one  ever  stammered  out  such  fine  piquant,  deep, 
eloquent  things  in  half  a  dozen  half-sentences  as  he 
does.  His  jests  scald  like  tears ;  and  he  probes  a 
question  with  a  play  upon  words.  What  a  keen, 
laughing,  hare-brained  vein  of  home-felt  truth ! 
What  choice  venom !  How  often  did  we  cut  into 
the  haunch  of  letters,  while  we  discussed  the  haunch 
of  mutton  on  the  table  !  How  we  skimmed  the  cream 
of  criticism !  How  we  got  into  the  heart  of  con- 
troversy !  How  we  picked  out  the  marrow  of  authors  ! 
"  And,  in  our  flowing  cups,  many  a  good  name  and 
true  was  freshly  remembered."  Recollect  (most  sage 
and  critical  reader)  that  in  all  this  I  was  but  a  guest ! 
Need  I  go  over  the  names  ?  They  were  but  the  old 
everlasting  set — Milton  and  Shakespeare,  Pope  and 
Dryden,  Steele  and  Addison,  Swift  and  Gay,  Field- 
ing, Smollett,  Sterne,  Richardson,  Hogarth's  prints, 
Gaude's  landscapes,  the  Cartoons  at  Hampton  Court, 
and  all  those  things  that,  having  once  been,  must  ever 
be.  The  Scotch  Novels  had  not  then  been  heard 
of:  so  we  said  nothing  about  them.  In  general, 
we  were  hard  upon  the  moderns.  The  author  of  the 
"  Rambler  "  was  only  tolerated  in  Boswell's  "  Life  "  of 
him  ;  and  it  was  as  much  as  any  one  could  do  to  edge 
in  a  word  for  "  Junius."  Lamb  could  not  bear  "Gil 
Bias."  This  was  a  fault.  I  remember  the  greatest 
triumph  I  ever  had  was  in  persuading  him,  after  some 
years'  difficulty,  that  Fielding  was  better  than  Smollett 
284 


On  one  occasion,  he  was  for  making  out  a  list  of 
persons  famous  in  history  that  one  would  wish  to  see 
again — at  the  head  of  which  were  Pontius  Pilate,  Sir 
Thomas  Browne,  and  Dr.  Faustus — but  we  black-balled 
most  of  his  list !  But  with  what  a  gusto  would  he 
describe  his  favourite  authors,  Donne,  or  Sir  Philip 
Sidney,  and  call  their  most  crabbed  passages 
delicious  \  He  tried  them  on  his  palate  as  epicures 
taste  olives,  and  his  observations  had  a  smack  in 
them,  like  a  roughness  on  the  tongue.  With  what 
discrimination  he  hinted  a  defect  in  what  he  admired 
most — as  in  saying  that  the  display  of  the  sumptuous 
banquet  in  "  Paradise  Regained "  was  not  in  true 
keeping,  as  the  simplest  fare  was  all  that  was 
necessary  to  tempt  the  extremity  of  hunger — and 
stating  that  Adam  and  Eve  in  "  Paradise  Lost "  were 
too  much  like  married  people. 

W.  Hazlitt. 


Mrs.  Battle  o        «£>        o        o        o        o 

"    A    CLEAR  fire,  a  clean  hearth,  and  the  rigour  of 

*••     the  game."    Th;s  was  the  celebrated  wish  of 

old  Sarah  Battle  (now  with   God),  who,  next  to  her 

devotions,  loved  a  good  game  at  whist.     She  was  none 

of  your  lukewarm  gamesters,  your  half-and-half  players, 

who  have  no  objection  to  take  a  hand,  if  you  want  one 

to  make  up  a  rubber ;  who  affirm  that  they  have  no 

pleasure  in  winning  ;  that  they  like  to  win  one  game 

285 


and  lose  another ;  that  they  can  while  away  an  hour 
very  agreeably  at  a  card-table,  but  are  indifferent 
whether  they  play  or  no  ;  and  will  desire  an  adversary, 
who  has  slipt  a  wrong  card,  to  take  it  up  and  play 
another.  These  insufferable  triflers  are  the  curse  of  a 
table.  One  of  these  flies  will  spoil  a  whole  pot.  Of 
such  it  may  be  said,  that  they  do  not  play  at  cards,  but 
only  play  at  playing  at  them. 

Sarah  Battle  was  none  of  that  breed.  She  detested 
them,  as  I  do,  from  her  heart  and  soul ;  and  would 
not,  save  upon  a  striking  emergency,  willingly  seat 
herself  at  the  same  table  with  them.  She  loved  a 
thorough-paced  partner,  a  determined  enemy.  She 
took,  and  gave,  no  concessions.  She  hated  favours. 
She  never  made  a  revoke,  nor  ever  passed  it  over  in 
her  adversary  without  exacting  the  utmost  forfeiture. 
She  fought  a  good  fight :  cut  and  thrust.  She  held 
not  her  good  sword  (her  cards)  "  like  a  dancer."  She 
sat  bolt  upright ;  and  neither  showed  you  her  cards, 
nor  desired  to  see  yours.  All  people  have  their  blind 
side— their  superstitions ;  and  I  have  heard  her  de- 
clare, under  the  rose,  that  Hearts  was  her  favourite 
suit. 

I  never  in  my  life—  and  I  knew  Sarah  Battle  many 
of  the  best  years  of  it — saw  her  take  out  her  snuff-box 
when  it  was  her  turn  to  play  ;  or  snuff  a  candle  in  the 
middle  of  a  game  ;  or  ring  for  a  servant,  till  it  was 
fairly  over.  She  never  introduced  or  connived  at  mis- 
cellaneous conversation  during  its  process.  As  she 
emphatically  observed,  cards  were  cards  :  and  if  I 
286 


ever  saw  unmingled  distaste  in  her  fine  last-century 
countenance,  it  was  at  the  airs  of  a  young  gentleman 
of  a  literary  turn,  who  had  been  with  difficulty  per- 
suaded to  take  a  hand  ;  and  who,  in  his  excess  of 
candour,  declared  that  he  thought  there  was  no  harm 
in  unbending  the  mind  now  and  then,  after  serious 
studies,  in  recreations  of  that  kind  !  She  could  not 
bear  to  have  her  noble  occupation,  to  which  she  wound 
up  her  faculties,  considered  in  that  light.  It  was  her 
business,  her  duty,  the  thing  she  came  into  the  world 
to  do, — and  she  did  it.  She  unbent  her  mind  after- 
wards—over a  book.  .  .  .  No  inducement  could  ever 
prevail  upon  her  to  play  at  any  game,  where  chance 
entered  into  the  composition,  for  nothing.  Chance, 
she  would  argue — and  here  again,  admire  the  subtlety 
of  her  conclusion  ! — chance  is  nothing,  but  where 
something  else  depends  upon  it.  It  is  obvious,  that 
cannot  be  glory.  What  rational  cause  of  exultation 
could  it  give  to  a  man  to  turn  up  size  ace  a  hundred 
times  together  by  himself  ?  or  before  spectators,  where 
no  stake  was  depending  ? —  Make  a  lottery  of  a  hundred 
thousand  tickets  with  but  one  fortunate  number — and 
what  possible  principle  of  our  nature,  except  stupid 
wonderment,  could  it  gratify  to  gain  that  number  as 
many  times  successively,  without  a  prize? — Therefore 
she  disliked  the  mixture  of  chance  in  backgammon, 
where  it  was  not  played  for  money.  She  called  it 
foolish,  and  those  people  idiots,  who  were  taken  with 
a  lucky  hit  under  such  circumstances.  Games  of  pure 
skill  were  as  little  to  her  fancy.  Played  for  a  stake, 
287 


they  were  a  mere  system  of  over-reaching.  Played  for 
glory,  they  were  a  mere  setting  of  one  man's  wit, — his 
memory,  or  combination  -  faculty  rather  —  against 
another's ;  like  a  mock  engagement  at  a  review, 
bloodless  and  profitless. — She  could  not  conceive  a 
game  wanting  the  spritely  infusion  of  chance, — the 
handsome  excuses  of  good  fortune.  Two  people 
playing  at  chess  in  a  corner  of  a  room  whilst  whist  was 
stirring  in  the  centre,  would  inspire  her  with  unsuffer- 
able  horror  and  ennui.  Those  well-cut  similitudes  of 
Castles,  and  Knights,  the  imagery  of  the  board,  she 
would  argue  (and  I  think  in  this  case  justly),  were 
entirely  misplaced  and  senseless.  Those  hard-head 
contests  can  in  no  instance  ally  with  the  fancy.  They 
reject  form  and  colour.  A  pencil  and  dry  slate  (she 
used  to  say)  were  the  proper  arena  for  such  com- 
batants. 

Charles  Lamb. 


Fitzpatrick  Smart,  Esq.      o        o        o        *> 

ET  us  now  summon  the  shade  of  another  departed 
•*— '  victim — Fitzpatrick  Smart,  Esq.  He  too, 
through  a  long  life,  had  been  a  vigilant  and  enthus- 
iastic collector,  but  after  a  totally  different  fashion. 
He  was  far  from  omnivorous.  He  had  a  principle  of 
selection  peculiar  and  separate  from  all  other's,  as  was 
his  own  individuality  from  other  men's.  You  could 
not  classify  his  library  according  to  any  of  the  accepted 
288 


nomenclatures  peculiar  to  the  initiated.  He  was  not 
a  black-letter  man,  or  a  tall  copyist,  or  an  uncut  man, 
or  a  rough-edge  man,  or  an  early-English-dramatist, 
or  an  Elzevirian,  or  a  broadsider,  or  a  pasquinader, 
or  an  old -brown -calf  man,  or  a  Grangerite,  or  a 
tawny-moroccoite,  or  a  gilt-topper,  a  marbled-insider, 
or  an  editio princeps  man  ;  neither  did  he  come  under 
any  of  the  more  vulgar  classification  of  collectors 
whose  thoughts  run  more  upon  the  usefulness  for  study 
than  upon  the  external  conditions  of  their  library, 
such  as  those  who  affect  science,  or  the  classics,  or 
English  poetic  and  historical  literature.  There  was 
no  way  of  defining  his  peculiar  walk  save  by  his  own 
name  — it  was  the  Fitzpatrick- Smart  walk.  In  fact, 
it  wound  itself  in  infinite  windings  through  isolated 
spots  of  literary  scenery,  if  we  may  so  speak,  in  which 
he  took  a  personal  interest.  There  were  historical 
events,  bits  of  family  history,  chiefly  of  a  tragic  or  a 
scandalous  kind, — efforts  of  art  or  of  literary  genius 
on  which,  through  some  hidden  intellectual  law,  his 
mind  and  memory  loved  to  dwell ;  and  it  was  in 
reference  to  these  that  he  collected.  If  the  book  were 
the  one  desired  by  him,  no  anxiety  and  toil,  no  pay- 
able price,  was  to  be  grudged  for  its  acquisition.  If 
the  book  were  an  inch  out  of  his  own  line,  it  might  be 
trampled  in  the  mire  for  aught  he  cared,  be  it  as  rare 
or  costly  as  it  could  be. 

It  was  difficult,  almost  impossible,  for  others  to  pre- 
dicate what  would  please  this  wayward  sort  of  taste, 
and  he  was  the  torment  of  the  book-caterers,  who 
T  289 


were  sure  of  a  princely  price  for  the  right  article,  but 
might  have  the  wrong  one  thrown  in  their  teeth  with 
contumely.  It  was  a  perilous,  but,  if  successful,  a 
gratifying  thing  to  present  him  with  a  book.  If  it 
happened  to  hit  his  fancy,  he  felt  the  full  force  of  the 
compliment,  and  overwhelmed  the  giver  with  his 
courtly  thanks.  But  great  observation  and  tact  were 
required  for  such  an  adventure.  The  chances  against 
an  ordinary  thoughtless  gift-maker  were  thousands  to 
one  ;  and  those  who  were  acquainted  with  his  strange 
nervous  temperament,  knew  that  the  existence  within 
his  dwelling-place  of  any  book  not  of  his  own  special 
kind,  would  impart  to  him  the  sort  of  feeling  of  uneasy 
horror  which  a  bee  is  said  to  feel  when  an  earwig 
comes  into  its  cell.  Presentation  copies  by  authors 
were  among  the  chronic  torments  of  his  existence. 
While  the  complacent  author  was  perhaps  pluming 
himself  on  his  liberality  in  making  the  judicious  gift, 
the  recipient  was  pouring  out  all  his  sarcasm,  which 
was  not  feeble  or  slight,  on  the  odious  object,  and 
wondering  why  an  author  could  have  entertained 
against  him  so  steady  and  enduring  a  malice  as  to 
take  the  trouble  of  writing  and  printing  all  that 
rubbish  with  no  better  object  than  disturbing  the 
peace  of  mind  of  an  inoffensive  old  man.  Every 
tribute  from  such  dona  ferentes  cost  him  much  un- 
easiness and  some  want  of  sleep — for  what  could 
he  do  with  it?  It  was  impossible  to  make  merchan- 
dise of  it,  for  he  was  every  inch  a  gentleman.  He 
could  not  burn  it,  for  under  an  acrid  exterior  he  had 
290 


a  kindly  nature.  It  was  believed,  indeed,  that  he 
had  established  some  limbo  of  his  own,  in  which  such 
unwelcome  commodities  were  subject  to  a  kind  of 
burial  or  entombment,  where  they  remained  in 
existence,  yet  were  decidedly  outside  the  circle  of 
his  household  gods. 

These  gods  were  a  pantheon  of  a  lively  and 
grotesque  aspect,  for  he  was  a  hunter  after  other 
things  besides  books.  His  acquisitions  included 
pictures,  and  the  various  commodities  which,  for 
want  of  a  distinctive  name,  auctioneers  call  "mis- 
cellaneous articles  of  vertu."  He  started  on  his 
accumulating  career  with  some  old  family  relics,  and 
these,  perhaps,  gave  the  direction  to  his  subsequent 
acquisitions,  for  they  were  all,  like  his  books,  brought 
together  after  some  self-willed  and  peculiar  law  of 
association  that  pleased  himself.  A  bad,  even  an 
inferior,  picture  he  would  not  have— for  his  taste  was 
exquisite — unless,  indeed,  it  had  some  strange  history 
about  it,  adapting  it  to  his  wayward  fancies,  and  then 
he  would  adopt  the  badness  as  a  peculiar  recom- 
mendation, and  point  it  out  with  some  pungent  and 
appropriate  remark  to  his  friends.  But  though,  with 
these  peculiar  exceptions,  his  works  of  art  were 
faultless,  no  dealer  could  ever  calculate  on  his  buy- 
ing a  picture,  however  high  in  artistic  merit  or 
tempting  as  a  bargain.  With  his  ever-accumulating 
collection,  in  which  tiny  sculpture  and  brilliant  colour 
predominated,  he  kept  a  sort  of  fairy  world  around 
him.  But  each  one  of  the  mob  of  curious  things  he 
291 


preserved  had  some  story  linking  it  with  others,  or 
with  his  peculiar  fancies,  and  each  one  had  its  precise 
place  in  a  sort  of  epos^  as  certainly  as  each  of  the 
persons  in  the  confusion  of  a  pantomime  or  a  farce 
has  his  own  position  and  functions. 

After  all,  he  was  himself  his  own  greatest  curiosity. 
He  had  come  to  manhood  just  after  the  period  of 
gold-laced  waistcoats,  small-clothes,  and  shoe-buckles, 
otherwise  he  would  have  been  long  a  living  memorial 
of  these  now  antique  habits.  It  happened  to  be  his 
lot  to  preserve  down  to  us  the  earliest  phase  of  the 
pantaloon  dynasty.  So,  while  the  rest  of  the  world 
were  booted  or  heavy  shod,  his  silk-stockinged  feet 
were  thrust  into  pumps  of  early  Oxford  cut,  and  the 
predominant  garment  was  the  surtout,  blue  in  colour, 
and  of  the  original  make  bef  .re  it  came  to  be  called 
a  frock.  Round  his  neck  was  wrapped  an  ante- 
Brummelite  neckerchief  (not  a  tie),  which  projected 
in  many  wreaths  like  a  great  poultice  —  and  so  he 
took  his  walks  abroad,  a  figure  which  he  could 
himself  have  turned  into  admirable  ridicule. 

One  of  the  mysteries  about  him  was,  that  his 
clothes,  though  unlike  any  other  person's,  were 
always  old.  This  characteristic  could  not  even  be 
accounted  for  by  the  supposition  that  he  had  laid  in 
a  sixty  years'  stock  in  his  youth,  for  they  always 
appeared  to  have  been  a  good  deal  worn.  The  very 
umbrella  was  in  keeping— it  was  of  green  silk,  an 
obsolete  colour  ten  years  ago — and  the  handle  was 
of  a  peculiar  crosier- like  formation  in  cast -horn, 
292 


obviously  not  obtainable  in  the  market.  His  face 
was  ruddy,  but  not  with  the  ruddiness  of  youth  ;  and, 
bearing  on  his  head  a  Brutus  wig  of  the  light-brown 
hair  which  had  long  ago  legitimately  shaded  his  brow, 
when  he  stood  still — except  for  his  linen,  which  was 
snowy  white — one  might  suppose  that  he  had  been 
shot  and  stuffed  on  his  return  home  from  college,  and 
had  been  sprinkled  with  the  frowzy  mouldiness  which 
time  imparts  to  stuffed  animals  and  other  things,  in 
which  a  semblance  to  the  freshness  of  living  nature 
is  vainly  attempted  to  be  preserved.  So  if  he  were 
motionless ;  but  let  him  speak,  and  the  internal 
freshness  was  still  there,  an  ever-blooming  garden  of 
intellectual  flowers.  His  antiquated  costume  was  no 
longer  grotesque — it  harmonised  with  an  antiquated 
courtesy  and  high-bred  gentleness  of  manner,  which 
he  had  acquired  from  the  best  sources,  since  he  had 
seen  the  first  company  in  his  day,  whether  for  rank 
or  genius.  And  conversation  and  manner  were  far 
from  exhausting  his  resources.  He  had  a  wonderful 
pencil — it  was  potent  for  the  beautiful,  the  terrible,  and 
the  ridiculous  ;  but  it  took  a  wayward  wilful  course, 
like  everything  else  about  him.  He  had  a  brilliant 
pen,  too,  when  he  chose  to  wield  it  ;  but  the  idea 
that  he  should  exercise  any  of  these  his  gifts  in 
common  display  before  the  world,  for  any  even  of  the 
higher  motives  that  make  people  desire  fame  and 
praise,  would  have  sickened  him.  His  faculties  were 
his  own  as  much  as  his  collection,  and  to  be  used 
according  to  his  caprice  and  pleasure.  So  fluttered 
293 


through  existence  one  who,  had  it  been  his  fate  to 
have  his  own  bread  to  make,  might  have  been  a 
great  man.  Alas  for  the  end !  Some  curious 
annotations  are  all  that  remain  of  his  literary  powers 
— some  drawings  and  etchings  in  private  collections 
all  of  his  artistic.  His  collection,  with  its  long  train 
of  legends  and  associations,  came  to  what  he  himself 
must  have  counted  as  dispersal.  He  left  it  to  his 
housekeeper,  who,  like  a  wise  woman,  converted  it 
into  cash  while  its  mysterious  reputation  was  fresh 
Huddled  in  a  great  auction-room,  its  several  cata- 
logued items  lay  in  humiliating  contrast  with  the 
decorous  order  in  which  they  were  wont  to  be 
arranged.  Sic  transit  gloria  mundi. 

John  Hill  Burton. 


Jem  White  •<=>         o         o         •&         *t>        o* 

A  /T  Y  pleasant  friend  JEM  WHITE  was  so  impressed 
•*•*•*•  with  a  belief  of  metamorphoses  like  this  fre- 
quently taking  place,  that  in  some  sort  to  reverse 
the  wrongs  of  fortune  in  their  poor  changelings,  he 
instituted  an  annual  feast  of  chimney-sweepers,  at 
which  it  was  his  pleasure  to  officiate  as  host  and 
waiter.  It  was  a  solemn  supper  held  in  Smithfield, 
upon  the  yearly  return  of  the  fair  of  St.  Bartholomew. 
Cards  were  issued  a  week  before  to  the  master-sweeps 
in  and  about  the  metropolis,  confining  the  invitation 
294 


to  their  younger  fry.  Now  and  then  an  elderly 
stripling  would  get  in  among  us,  and  be  good- 
naturedly  winked  at ;  but  our  main  body  were  infantry. 
One  unfortunate  wight,  indeed,  who,  relying  upon  his 
dusky  suit,  had  intruded  himself  into  our  party,  but 
by  tokens  was  providentially  discovered  in  time  to  he 
no  chimney-sweeper  (all  is  not  soot  which  looks  so), 
was  quoited  out  of  the  presence  with  universal  in- 
dignation, as  not  having  on  the  wedding  garment ; 
but  in  general  the  greatest  harmony  prevailed.  The 
place  chosen  was  a  convenient  spot  among  the  pens 
at  the  north  side  of  the  fair,  not  so  far  distant  as  to  be 
impervious  to  the  agreeable  hubbub  of  that  vanity ; 
but  remote  enough  not  to  be  obvious  to  the  inter- 
ruption of  every  gaping  spectator  in  it.  The  guests 
assembled  about  seven.  In  those  little  temporary 
parlours  three  tables  were  spread  with  napery,  not 
so  fine  as  substantial,  and  at  every  board  a  comely 
hostess  presided  with  her  pan  of  hissing  sausages. 
The  nostrils  of  the  young  rogues  dilated  at  the 
savour.  JAM l-;s  \\'HITE,  as  head  waiter,  had  charge  of 
the  first  table  ;  and  myself,  with  our  trusty  companion 
BIGOD,  ordinarily  ministered  to  the  other  two.  There 
was  clambering  and  jostling,  you  may  be  sure,  who 
should  get  at  the  first  table — for  Rochester  in  his 
maddest  days  could  not  have  done  the  humours  of 
the  scene  with  more  spirit  than  my  friend.  After 
some  general  expression  of  thanks  for  the  honour 
the  company  had  done  him,  his  inaugural  ceremony 
was  to  clasp  the  greasy  waist  of  old  dame  Ursula  (the 

295 


fattest  of  the  three),  that  stood  frying  and  fretting, 
half-blessing,  half-cursing  "the  gentleman,"  and  im- 
print upon  her  chaste  lips  a  tender  salute,  whereat 
the  universal  host  would  set  up  a  shout  that  tore  the 
concave,  while  hundreds  of  grinning  teeth  startled  the 
night  with  their  brightness.  O  it  was  a  pleasure  to 
see  the  sable  younkers  lick  in  the  unctuous  meat, 
with  his  more  unctuous  sayings— how  he  would  fit 
the  tit  bits  to  the  puny  mouths,  reserving  the  lengthier 
links  for  the  seniors — how  he  would  intercept  a  morsel 
even  in  the  jaws  of  some  young  desperado,  declaring 
it  "  must  to  the  pan  again  to  be  browned,  for  it  was 
not  fit  for  a  gentleman's  eating" — how  he  would 
recommend  this  slice  of  white  bread,  or  that  piece 
of  kissing-crust,  to  a  tender  juvenile,  advising  them  all 
to  have  a  care  of  cracking  their  teeth,  which  were 
their  best  patrimony, — how  genteelly  he  would  deal 
about  the  small  ale,  as  if  it  were  wine,  naming  the 
brewer,  and  protesting,  if  it  were  not  good,  he  should 
lose  their  custom  ;  with  a  special  recommendation  to 
wipe  the  lip  before  drinking.  Then  we  had  our 
toasts — "The  King," — the  "Cloth," — which,  whether 
they  understood  or  not,  was  equally  diverting  and 
flattering;  —  and  for  a  crowning  sentiment,  which 
never  failed,  "  May  the  Brush  supersede  the  Laurel." 
All  these,  and  fifty  other  fancies,  which  were  rather 
felt  than  comprehended  by  his  guests,  would  he  utter, 
standing  upon  tables,  and  prefacing  every  sentiment 
with  a  "  Gentlemen,  give  me  leave  to  propose  so  and 
so,"  which  was  a  prodigious  comfort  to  those  young 
296 


orphans  ;  every  now  and  then  stuffing  into  his  mouth 
(for  it  did  not  do  to  be  squeamish  on  these  occasions) 
indiscriminate  pieces  of  those  reeking  sausages,  which 
pleased  them  mightily,  and  was  the  savouriest  part, 
you  may  believe,  of  the  entertainment. 

Charles  Lamb. 


W. 


T  F  you  had  walked  to  what  was  then  Sweet  Auburn 
•*•  by  the  pleasant  Old  Road,  on  some  June  morning 
thirty  years  ago,  you  would  very  likely  have  met  two 
other  characteristic  persons,  both  phantasmagoric 
now,  and  belonging  to  the  past.  Fifty  years  earlier, 
the  scarlet-coated,  rapiered  figures  of  Vassall,  Lech- 
mere,  Oliver,  and  Brattle  creaked  up  and  down  there 
on  red-heeled  shoes,  lifting  the  ceremonious  three- 
cornered  hat,  and  offering  the  fugacious  hospitalities 
of  the  snuff-box.  They  are  all  shadowy  alike  now, 
not  one  of  your  Estruscan  Lucumos  or  Roman 
Consuls  more  so,  my  dear  Storg.  First  is  \V.,  his 
queue  slender  and  tapering,  like  the  tail  of  a  violet 
crab,  held  out  horizontally  by  the  high  collar  of  his 
shepherd's  -  grey  overcoat,  whose  style  was  of  the 
latest  when  he  studied  at  Leyden  in  his  hot  youth. 
The  age  of  cheap  clothes  sees  no  more  of  those 
faithful  old  garments,  as  proper  to  their  wearers  and 
as  distinctive  as  the  barks  of  trees,  and  by  long  use 
297 


interpenetrated  with  their  very  nature.  Nor  do  we 
see  so  many  Humors  (still  in  the  old  sense)  now  that 
every  man's  soul  belongs  to  the  Public,  as  when 
social  distinctions  were  more  marked,  and  men  felt 
that  their  personalities  were  their  castles,  in  which 
they  could  intrench  themselves  against  the  world. 
Now-a-days  men  are  shy  of  letting  their  true  selves 
be  seen,  as  if  in  some  former  life  they  had  committed 
a  crime,  and  were  all  the  time  afraid  of  discovery  and 
arrest  in  this.  Formerly  they  used  to  insist  on  your 
giving  the  wall  to  their  peculiarities,  and  you  may 
still  find  examples  of  it  in  the  parson  or  the  doctor 
of  retired  villages.  One  of  W.'s  oddities  was  touching. 
A  little  brook  used  to  run  across  the  street,  and  the 
sidewalk  was  carried  over  it  by  a  broad  stone.  Of 
course  there  is  no  brook  now.  What  use  did  that 
little  glimpse  of  a  ripple  serve,  where  the  children 
used  to  launch  their  chip  fleets  ?  W.,  in  going  over 
this  stone,  which  gave  a  hollow  resonance  to  the 
tread,  had  a  trick  of  striking  upon  it  three  times  with 
his  cane,  and  muttering,  "  Tom,  Tom,  Tom  ! "  I 
used  to  think  he  was  only  mimicking  with  his  voice 
the  sound  of  the  blows,  and  possibly  it  was  that  sound 
which  suggested  his  thought,  for  he  was  remembering 
a  favourite  nephew,  prematurely  dead.  Perhaps  Tom 
had  sailed  his  boats  there  ;  perhaps  the  reverberation 
under  the  old  man's  foot  hinted  at  the  hollowness  of 
life  ;  perhaps  the  fleeting  eddies  of  the  water  brought 
to  mind  fatfugaces  annos.  W.,  like  P.,  wore  amazing 
spectacles,  fit  to  transmit  no  smaller  image  than  the 
298 


page  of  mightiest  folios  of  Dioscorides  or  Hercules  de 
Saxonia,  and  rising  full-disked  upon  the  beholder  like 
those  prodigies  of  two  moons  at  once,  portending 
change  to  monarchs.  The  great  collar  disallowing 
any  independent  rotation  of  the  head,  I  remember  he 
used  to  turn  his  whole  person  in  order  to  bring  their 
foci  to  bear  upon  an  object.  One  can  fancy  that 
terrified  Nature  would  have  yielded  up  her  secrets  at 
once,  without  cross-examination,  at  their  first  glare. 
Through  them  he  had  gazed  fondly  into  the  great 
mare's-nest  of  Junius,  publishing  his  observations 
upon  the  eggs  found  therein  in  a  tall  octavo.  It  was 
he  who  introduced  vaccination  to  this  Western  World. 
Malicious  persons  disputing  his  claim  to  this  distinc- 
tion, he  published  this  advertisement :  "  Lost,  a  gold 
snuff-box,  with  the  inscription,  'The  Jenner  of  the 
Old  World  to  the  Jenner  of  the  New.'  Whoever 

shall  return  the  same  to  Dr.  shall  be  suitably 

rewarded."  It  was  never  returned.  Would  the 
search  after  it  have  been  as  fruitless  as  that  of  the 
alchemist  after  his  equally  imaginary  gold  ?  Malicious 
persons  persisted  in  believing  the  box  as  visionary  as 
the  claim  it  was  meant  to  buttress  with  a  semblance 
of  reality.  He  used  to  stop  and  say  good-morning 
kindly,  and  pat  the  shoulder  of  the  blushing  school- 
boy who  now,  with  the  fierce  snowstorm  wildering 
without,  sits  and  remembers  sadly  those  old  meetings 
and  partings  in  the  June  sunshine. 

/.  R,  Lowell. 


209 


Whittle  and  Sarratt  o         o         -e>         o 

T  T  E  was  a  large,  plain,  fair-faced  Moravian 
•*•  •*•  preacher,  turned  physican.  He  was  an  honest 
man,  but  vain  of  he  knew  not  what.  He  was  once 
sitting  where  Sarratt  was  playing  a  game  at  chess 
without  seeing  the  board  ;  and  after  remaining  for 
some  time  absorbed  in  silent  wonder,  he  turned 
suddenly  to  me  and  said,  "Do  you  know,  Mr.  Hazlitt, 
that  I  think  there  is  something  I  could  do  ? "  "  Well, 
what  is  that  ?  "  "  Why,  perhaps  you  would  not  guess, 
but  I  think  I  could  dance,  I'm  sure  I  could  ;  ay,  I 
could  dance  like  Vestris  ! " — Sarratt,  who  was  a  man 
of  various  accomplishments  (among  others  one  of  the 
Fancy),  afterwards  bared  his  arm  to  convince  us  of 
his  muscular  strength,  and  Mrs.  Whittle  going  out  of 
the  room  with  another  lady,  said,  "  Do  you  know, 
Madam,  the  Doctor  is  a  great  jumper!"  Moliere 
could  not  outdo  this.  Never  shall  I  forget  his  pulling 
off  his  coat  to  eat  beaf-steaks  on  equal  terms  with 
Martin  Burney.  Life  is  short,  but  full  of  mirth  and 
pastime,  did  we  not  so  soon  forget  what  we  have 
laughed  at,  perhaps  that  we  may  not  remember  what 
we  have  cried  at  ! — Sarratt  the  chess-player  was  an 
extraordinary  man.  He  had  the  same  tenacious, 
epileptic  faculty  in  other  things  that  he  had  at  chess, 
and  could  no  more  get  any  other  ideas  out  of  his 
mind  than  he  could  those  of  the  figures  on  the  board. 
He  was  a  great  reader,  but  had  not  the  least  taste. 
Indeed,  the  violence  of  his  memory  tyrannised  over 
300 


and  destroyed  all  power  of  selection.  He  could 
repeat  Ossian  by  heart,  without  knowing  the  best 
passage  from  the  worst ;  and  did  not  perceive  he 
was  tiring  you  to  death  by  giving  you  an  account  of 
the  breed,  education,  and  manners  of  fighting-dogs 
for  hours  together.  The  sense  of  reality  quite  super- 
seded the  distinction  between  the  pleasurable  and  the 
painful.  He  was  altogether  a  mechanical  philosopher. 

William  Hazlitt. 


J.  F.  o         *£>         ^>         •£>         o        o        o 

AND  this  reminds  me  of  J.  F.,  who,  also  crossed 
in  love,  allowed  no  mortal  eye  to  behold  his 
face  for  many  years.  The  eremitic  instinct  is  not 
peculiar  to  the  Thebais,  as  many  a  New  England 
village  can  testify ;  and  it  is  worthy  of  consideration 
that  the  Romish  Church  has  not  forgotten  this  among 
her  other  points  of  intimate  contact  with  human 
nature.  F.  became  purely  vespertinal,  never  stirring 
abroad  till  after  dark.  He  occupied  two  rooms, 
migrating  from  one  to  the  other,  as  the  necessities 
of  housewifery  demanded,  thus  shunning  all  sight  of 
womankind,  and  being  practically  more  solitary  in 
his  dual  apartment  than  Montaigne's  Dean  of  St 
Hilaire  in  his  single  one.  When  it  was  requisite  that 
he  should  put  his  signature  to  any  legal  instrument, 
(for  he  was  an  anchorite  of  ample  means,)  he  wrapped 
himself  in  a  blanket,  allowing  nothing  to  be  seen  but 

3°' 


the  hand  which  acted  as  scribe.  What  impressed  us 
boys  more  than  anything  else  was  the  rumour  that 
he  had  suffered  his  beard  to  grow, — such  an  anti- 
Sheffieldism  being  almost  unheard  of  in  those  days, 
and  the  peculiar  ornament  of  man  being  associated 
in  our  minds  with  nothing  more  recent  than  the 
patriarchs  and  apostles,  whose  effigies  we  were 
obliged  to  solace  ourselves  with  weekly  in  the  Family 
Bible.  He  came  out  of  his  oysterhood  at  last,  and  I 
knew  him  well,  a  k'.nd-hearted  man,  who  gave  annual 
sleigh-rides  to  the  town-paupers,  and  supplied  the 
poor  children  with  school-books.  His  favourite  topic 
of  conversation  was  Eternity,  and,  like  many  other 
worthy  persons,  he  used  to  fancy  that  meaning  was 
an  affair  of  aggregation,  and  that  he  doubled  the 
intensity  of  what  he  said  by  the  sole  aid  of  the 
multiplication-table.  "  Eternity  ! "  he  used  to  say,  "  it 
is  not  a  day  ;  it  is  not  a  year  ;  it  is  not  a  hundred 
years  ;  it  is  not  a  thousand  years  ;  it  is  not  a  million 
years  ;  no,  sir,"  (the  sir  being  thrown  in  to  recall 
wandering  attention,)  "  it  is  not  ten  million  years  ! " 
and  so  on,  his  enthusiasm  becoming  a  mere  frenzy 
when  he  got  among  his  sextillions,  till  I  sometimes 
wished  he  had  continued  in  retirement.  He  used  to 
sit  at  the  open  window  during  thunder-storms,  and 
had  a  Grecian  feeling  about  death  by  lightning.  In  a 
certain  sense  he  had  his  desire,  for  he  died  suddenly, 
— not  by  fire  from  heaven,  but  by  the  red  flash  of 
apoplexy,  leaving  his  whole  estate  to  charitable  uses. 

/.  R.  Lowell. 
302 


Cavanagh     o        o        o        o        o        o 

TT  is  not  likely  that  any  one  will  now  see  the  game 
-*•  of  fives  played  in  its  perfection  for  many  years  to 
come— for  Cavanagh  is  dead,  and  has  not  left  his 
peer  behind  him.  It  may  be  said,  that  there  are 
things  of  more  importance  than  striking  a  ball  against 
a  wall — there  are  things,  indeed,  which  make  more 
noise  and  do  as  little  good,  such  as  making  war  and 
peace,  making  speeches  and  answering  them,  making 
verses  and  blotting  them,  making  money  and  throw- 
ing it  away.  But  the  game  of  fives  is  what  no  one 
despises  who  has  ever  played  at  it.  It  is  the  finest 
exercise  for  the  body,  and  the  best  relaxation  for  the 
mind.  The  Roman  poet  said,  that  "  Care  mounted 
behind  the  horseman  and  stuck  to  his  skirts."  But 
this  remark  would  not  have  applied  to  the  fives-player. 
He  who  takes  to  playing  at  fives  is  twice  young.  He 
feels  neither  the  past  nor  the  future  "  in  the  instant." 
Debts,  taxes,  "  domestic  treason,  foreign  levy,  nothing 
can  touch  him  further."  He  has  no  other  wish,  no 
other  thought,  from  the  moment  the  game  begins, 
but  that  of  striking  the  ball,  of  placing  it,  of  making 
it  !  This  Cavanagh  was  sure  to  do.  Whenever  he 
touched  the  ball,  there  was  an  end  of  the  chase.  His 
eye  was  certain,  his  hand  fatal,  his  presence  of  mind 
complete.  He  could  do  what  he  pleased,  and  he 
always  knew  exactly  what  to  do.  He  saw  the  whole 
game,  and  played  it  ;  took  instant  advantage  of  his 
adversary's  weakness,  and  recovered  balls,  as  if  by  a 

3°3 


miracle  and  from  sudden  thought,  that  every  one 
gave  for  lost.  He  had  equal  power  and  skill,  quick- 
ness, and  judgment.  He  could  either  outwit  his 
antagonist  by  finesse,  or  beat  him  by  main  strength. 
Sometimes,  when  he  seemed  preparing  to  send  the 
ball  with  the  full  swing  of  his  arm,  he  would  by  a 
slight  turn  of  his  wrist  drop  it  within  an  inch  of  the 
line.  In  general,  the  ball  came  from  his  hand,  as  if 
from  a  racket,  in  a  straight  horizontal  line  ;  so  that  it 
was  in  vain  to  attempt  to  overtake  or  stop  it.  As  it 
was  said  of  a  great  orator  that  he  never  was  at  a  loss 
for  a  word,  and  for  the  properest  word,  so  Cavanagh 
always  could  tell  the  degree  of  force  necessary  to  be 
given  to  a  ball,  and  the  precise  direction  in  which  it 
should  be  sent.  He  did  his  work  with  the  greatest 
ease ;  never  took  more  pains  than  was  necessary  ; 
and  while  others  were  fagging  themselves  to  death, 
was  as  cool  and  collected  as  if  he  had  just  entered  the 
court.  His  style  of  play  was  as  remarkable  as  his 
power  of  execution.  He  had  no  affectation,  no 
trifling.  He  did  not  throw  away  the  game  to  show 
off  an  attitude,  or  try  an  experiment.  He  was  a  fine, 
sensible,  manly  player,  who  did  what  he  'could,  but 
that  was  more  than  any  one  else  could  even  affect  to 
do.  His  blows  were  not  undecided  and  ineffectual — 
lumbering  like  Mr.  Wordsworth's  epic  poetry,  nor 
wavering  like  Mr.  Coleridge's  lyric  prose,  nor  short 
of  the  mark  like  Mr.  Brougham's  speeches,  nor  wide 
of  it  like  Mr.  Canning's  wit,  nor  foul  like  the 
"Quarterly,"  not  let  balls  like  the  "Edinburgh 

3°4 


Review."  Cobbett  and  Junius  together  would  have 
made  a  Cavanagh.  He  was  the  best  up-hill  player 
in  the  world  ;  even  when  his  adversary  was  fourteen, 
he  would  play  on  the  same  or  better,  and  as  he  never 
flung  away  the  game  through  carelessness  and 
conceit,  he  never  gave  it  up  through  laziness  or  want 
of  heart.  The  only  peculiarity  of  his  play  was,  that 
he  never  volleyed,  but  let  the  balls  hop  ;  but  if  they 
rose  an  inch  from  the  ground,  he  never  missed  having 
them.  There  was  not  only  nobody  equal,  but  nobody 
second  to  him.  It  is  supposed  that  he  could  give  any 
other  player  half  the  game,  or  beat  him  with  his  left 
hand.  .  .  .  Cavanagh  died  from  the  bursting  of  a 
blood-vessel,  which  prevented  him  from  playing  for  the 
last  two  or  three  years.  This,  he  was  often  heard  to 
say,  he  thought  hard  upon  him.  He  was  fast  recover- 
ing, however,  when  he  was  suddenly  carried'  off,  to 
the  regret  of  all  who  knew  him.  As  Mr.  Peel  made 
it  a  qualification  of  the  present  Speaker,  Mr.  Manners 
Sutton,  that  he  was  an  excellent  moral  character,  so 
Jack  Cavanagh  was  a  zealous  Catholic,  and  could  not 
be  persuaded  to  eat  meat  on  a  Friday,  the  day  on 
which  he  died.  We  have  paid  this  willing  tribute  to 
his  memory. 

' '  Let  no  rude  hand  deface  it, 
And  his  forlorn  '  Hie  Jacrt.'  " 

William  Heulitt. 


305 


Xavier  Marmier       o         o         *£>         ^>         •*> 

T  N  the  first  rank  of  ever-faithful  book-hunters  we 
•*•  must  place  Xavier  Marmier.  His  specialty  was 
books  in  foreign  languages,  from  Italian  to  the  lan- 
guages of  the  North,  popular  tales,  and  all  that  we 
to-day  know  as  folk-lore.  And,  besides  collecting 
these  books,  he  made  frequent  and  distant  journeys. 
The  only  books  he  did  not  like  finding  in  the  stall- 
keeper's  box  were  those  he  bought  with  most  eager- 
ness ;  he  knew  from  long  experience  what  number 
of  excellent  books  were  to  be  found  on  the  parapets, 
and  he  could  not  suffer  any  of  his  to  remain  there. 
Ardently  and  continuously  did  he  make  a  clean  sweep 
of  Marmiers,  and  such  were  the  sympathy  and  respect 
with  which  he  was  surrounded  that  no  one  attempted 
to  take  advantage  of  this  vainglorious  but  inoffensive 
mania  by  exaggerating  the  price,  or  by  buying  here 
and  there  in  order  to  sell  to  him  again  the  works  of 
the  worthy  book-hunter,  which  are  by  no  means  rare 
in  second-hand  shops.  Book-hunting  was  for  this 
academician  such  a  serious  function  that  he  wore  a 
special  costume  for  the  purpose  ;  he  could  stow  away 
bundles  of  books  in  his  pockets,  which  were  numerous 
and  as  deep  as  sacks.  But  in  no  other  respect  did 
he  resemble  the  remarkable  bibliomaniac  of  the  Vie 
de  Bohtme.  Of  perfect  politeness,  in  which  were 
revived  the  best  traditions  of  the  old  rtgime>  Xavier 
Marmier  never  forgot  after  a  bargain  to  offer  the 
stall-keeper  a  cigarette,  or,  if  the  stall-keeper  were  a 
306 


woman,  to  take  a  sweetmeat-box  from  his  pocket  and 
beg  her  to  accept  a  chocolate  pastille. 

Anecdotes  abound  regarding  this  amiable  man  of 
letters  ;  a  respectable  collection  could  be  made  of 
Marmicrana.  Here  are  one  or  two,  to  stimulate  the 
appetite : — 

Not  long  ago  M.  Marmier  bought  for  two  sous  a 
book  which  seemed  to  interest  him  greatly ;  to  run 
through  it  after  he  had  bought  it  he  sat  down  on  the 
stall-keeper's  seat,  after  offering  \\.rn.  a  smoke.  A 
moment  afterwards  he  said  to  him  :  "Ah  !  mon  ami, 
you  would  not  believe  how  pleased  I  am  ;  I  have 
been  looking  for  this  work  for  ten  years;"  and  he 
put  a  five-franc  piece  into  the  hand  of  the  astonished 
dealer. 

Another  time  he  had  just  bought  at  a  low  price  a 
book  of  no  importance,  which  he  thought  might  some 
day  come  in  useful,  when  it  came  on  to  rain,  and  he 
had  to  take  shelter  on  the  terrace  of  a  neighbouring 
cafe.  lie  asked  for  a  glass  of  milk,  and  began  to 
examine  the  volume.  In  turning  over  the  leaves  he 
came  to  two  stuck  together,  and  on  separating  them 
found  a  hundred-franc  note — hidden  there  by  some 
bibliophile.  At  this  moment  he  distinctly  heard 
somebody  close  to  him  saying  so  sorrowfully,  "  To- 
morrow I  have  to  pay  up.  My  wife  and  children  will 
be  in  the  street.  I  will  sell  the  whole  shop  to-day. 
I  have  only  taken  six  sous,  which  a  gentleman  with 
a  ribbon  gave  me,  and  the  day  is  over  now  the  rain 
has  come.  Good-bye  to  trade,  as  far  as  I  am  con- 

3°7 


cerned  ! "  The  "  gentleman  with  a  ribbon  "  Marmier 
recognised  as  himself;  the  man  who  was  groaning 
at  the  neighbouring  table  was  none  other  than  the 
stall-keeper  who  had  sold  him  the  book  in  which  he 
had  just  made  such  an  unlikely  find.  The  academician 
rose,  took  the  stall-keeper's  hand,  and  slipped  into  it 
the  hundred-franc  note.  "  Look  here,  my  friend,"  he 
said,  "  you  forgot  what  was  in  the  book  you  sold  me 
just  now.  I  return  it  to  you  ! " 

Finally,  in  his  will  he  inserted  a  clause  which  de- 
serves to  be  quoted  at  length  :  "  In  remembrance  of 
the  happy  moments  I  have  passed  among  the  book- 
stall-keepers on  the  quays  of  the  left  bank — moments 
which  I  reckon  among  the  pleasantest  of  my  life — 
I  leave  to  these  worthy  stall-keepers  a  sum  of  1000 
francs.  I  desire  that  this  amount  shall  be  expended 
by  these  good  and  honest  dealers,  who  number  fifty 
or  thereabouts,  in  paying  for  a  jolly  dinner  and  in 
spending  an  hour  in  conviviality  and  in  thinking  of 
me.  This  will  be  my  acknowledgment  for  the  many 
hours  I  have  lived  intellectually  in  my  almost  daily 
walks  on  the  quays  between  the  Pont  Royal  and  the 
Pont  Saint-Michel." 

Octave  Uzanne. 


308 


Sir  Roger's  Death  o         o         o         o         o 

Heu  pittas  f  heu  prisca  Jides  I — 

Virg.,  ^«.  vi.  878. 
Mirror  of  ancient  faith  ! — 
Undaunted  worth  !  Inviolable  truth  ! 

Dry  den. 

\  I  7E  last  night  received  a  piece  of  ill-news  at  our 
•  •  club  which  very  sensibly  afflicted  every  one  of 
us.  I  question  not  but  my  readers  themselves  will  be 
troubled  at  the  hearing  of  it.  To  keep  them  no  longer 
in  suspense,  Sir  Roger  de  Coverley  is  dead.  He 
departed  this  life  at  his  house  in  the  country,  after  a 
few  weeks'  sickness.  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  has  a 
letter  from  one  of  his  correspondents  in  those  parts, 
that  informs  him  the  old  man  caught  a  cold  at  the 
county  sessions,  as  he  was  very  warmly  promoting  an 
address  of  his  own  penning,  in  which  he  succeeded 
according  to  his  wishes.  But  this  particular  comes 
from  a  whig  justice  of  peace,  who  was  always  Sir 
Roger's  enemy  and  antagonist.  I  have  letters  both 
from  the  chaplain  and  Captain  Sentry,  which  mention 
nothing  of  it,  but  are  filled  with  many  particulars  to 
the  honour  of  the  good  old  man.  I  have  likewise  a 
letter  from  the  butler,  who  took  so  much  care  of  me 
last  summer  when  I  was  at  the  knight's  house.  As 
my  friend  the  butler  mentions,  in  the  simplicity  of  his 
heart,  several  circumstances  the  others  have  passed 
over  in  silence,  I  shall  give  my  reader  a  copy  of  his 
letter,  without  any  alteration  or  diminution. 
3°9 


"  HONOURED  SIR, — Knowing  that  you  was  my  old 
master's  good  friend,  I  could  not  forbear  sending  you 
the  melancholy  news  of  his  death,  which  has  afflicted 
the  whole  country,  as  well  as  his  poor  servants,  who 
loved  him,  I  may  say,  better  than  we  did  our  lives.  I 
am  afraid  he  caught  his  death  the  last  county-sessions, 
where  he  would  go  to  see  justice  done  to  a  poor  widow 
woman,  and  her  fatherless  children,  that  had  been 
wronged  by  a  neighbouring  gentleman  ;  for  you  know, 
sir,  my  good  master  was  always  the  poor  man's  friend. 
Upon  his  coming  home,  the  first  complaint  he  made 
was,  that  he  had  lost  his  roast-beef  stomach,  not  being 
able  to  touch  a  sirloin,  which  was  served  up  according 
to  custom  ;  and  you  know  he  used  to  take  great  delight 
in  it.  From  that  time  forward  he  grew  worse  and  worse, 
but  still  kept  a  good  heart  to  the  last.  Indeed,  we 
were  once  in  great  hopes  of  his  recovery,  upon  a  kind 
message  that  was  sent  him  from  the  widow  lady  whom 
he  had  made  love  to  the  forty  last  years  of  his  life  ; 
but  this  only  proved  a  lightning  before  death.  He 
has  bequeathed  to  this  lady,  as  a  token  of  his  love,  a 
great  pearl  necklace,  and  a  couple  of  silver  bracelets 
set  with  jewels,  which  belonged  to  my  good  old  lady 
his  mother.  He  has  bequeathed  the  fine  white  gelding 
that  he  used  to  ride  a  hunting  upon  to  his  chaplain, 
because  he  thought  he  would  be  kind  to  him  ;  and  has 
left  you  all  his  books.  He  has,  moreover,  bequeathed 
to  the  chaplain  a  very  pretty  tenement  with  good  lands 
about  it.  It  being  a  very  cold  day  when  he  made  his 
will,  he  left  for  mourning  to  every  man  in  the  parish, 
310 


a  great  frieze-coat,  and  to  every  woman  a  black  riding 
hood.  It  was  a  most  moving  sight  to  see  him  take 
leave  of  his  poor  servants,  commending  us  all  for  our 
fidelity,  whilst  we  were  not  able  to  speak  a  word  for 
weeping.  As  we  most  of  us  are  grown  greyheaded  in 
our  dear  master's  service,  he  has  left  us  pensions  and 
legacies,  which  we  may  live  very  comfortably  upon 
the  remaining  part  of  our  days.  He  has  bequeathed 
a  great  deal  more  in  charity,  which  is  not  yet  come 
to  my  knowledge,  and  it  is  peremptorily  said  in  the 
parish  that  he  has  left  money  to  build  a  steeple  to  the 
church  :  for  he  was  heard  to  s  .y  some  time  ago,  that, 
if  he  lived  two  years  longer-  Covcrlcy  church  should 
have  a  steeple  to  it.  The  chaplain  tells  everybody 
that  he  made  a  very  good  end,  and  never  speaks  of 
him  without  tears.  He  was  buried,  according  to  his 
own  directions,  among  the  family  of  the  Covet  leys,  on 
the  left  hand  of  his  father  Sir  Arthur.  The  coffin  was 
carried  by  six  of  his  tenants,  and  the  pall  held  up  by 
six  of  the  quorum.  The  whole  parish  followed  the 
corpse  with  heavy  hearts,  and  in  their  mourning  suits  ; 
the  men  in  frieze,  and  the  women  in  riding  hoods. 
Captain  Sentry,  my  master's  nephew,  has  taken  posses- 
sion of  the  Hall-house,  and  the  whole  estate.  When 
my  old  master  saw  him  a  little  before  his  death,  he 
shook  him  by  the  hand,  and  wished  him  joy  of  the 
estate  which  was  falling  to  him,  desiring  him  only  to 
make  a  good  use  of  it,  and  to  pay  the  several  legacies, 
and  the  gifts  of  charity,  which  he  told  him  he  had  left 
as  quit-rents  upon  the  estate.  The  captain  truly  seems 

3" 


a  courteous  man,  though  he  says  but  little.  He  makes 
much  of  those  whom  my  master  loved,  and  shows 
great  kindness  to  the  old  house-dog,  that  you  know 
my  poor  master  was  so  fond  of.  It  would  have  gone 
to  your  heart  to  have  heard  the  moans  the  dumb 
creature  made  on  the  day  of  my  master's  death.  He 
has  never  enjoyed  himself  since  ;  no  more  has  any  of 
us.  It  was  the  melancholiest  day  for  the  poor  people 
that  ever  happened  in  Worcestershire.  This  being  all 
from,  honoured  sir,  your  most  sorrowful  servant, 

EDWARD  BISCUIT. 

"  P.S. — My  master  desired,  some  weeks  before  he 
died,  that  a  book,  which  comes  to  you  by  the  carrier, 
should  be  given  to  Sir  Andrew  Freeport  in  his 
name." 

This  letter,  notwithstanding  the  poor  butler's 
manner  of  writing  it,  gave  us  such  an  idea  of  our 
good  old  friend,  that  upon  the  reading  of  it  there  was 
not  a  dry  eye  in  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  opening  the 
book,  found  it  to  be  a  collection  of  acts  of  parliament. 
There  was  in  particular  the  Act  of  Uniformity,  with 
some  passages  in  it  marked  by  Sir  Roger's  own  hand. 
Sir  Andrew  found  that  they  related  to  two  or  three 
points  which  he  had  disputed  with  Sir  Roger,  the 
last  time  he  appeared  at  the  club.  Sir  Andrew,  who 
would  have  been  merry  at  such  an  incident  on  another 
occasion,  at  the  sight  of  the  old  man's  hand-writing 
burst  into  tears,  and  put  the  book  into  his  pocket. 
312 


Captain  Sentry  informs  me  that  the  knight  has  left 
rings  and  mourning  for  every  one  in  the  club. 

Joseph  Addison. 


The  Curd's  Progress  o        o        ^>        o 

\J\  ON  SI  EUR  the  Cure  down  the  street 
^    •*•      Comes  with  his  kind  old  face, — 
With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair, 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 

You  may  see  him  pass  by  the  little  "  Grande  Place? 

And  the  tiny  "  Hotel-de-  Ville  "  ; 
He  smiles  as  he  goes,  to  thefauriste  Rose, 

And  the  pompier  Theophile. 

He  turns,  as  a  rule,  through  the  "  Marcht"  cool, 

Where  the  noisy  fish-wives  call  ; 
And  his  compliment  pays  to  the  "belle  The'rese" 

As  she  knits  in  her  dusky  stall. 

There's  a  letter  to  drop  at  the  locksmith's  shop, 

And  Toto,  the  locksmith's  niece, 
Has  jubilant  hopes,  for  the  Cure  gropes 

In  his  tails  for  a. pain  effyice. 

There's  a  little  dispute  with  a  merchant  of  fruit, 

Who  is  said  to  lie  heterodox, 
That  will  ended  be  with  a  "Ufa/m,  out'/' 

And  a  pinch  from  the  Curb's  box. 
3*3 


There  is  also  a  word  that  no  one  heard 

To  the  furrier's  daughter  Lou  ; 
And  a  pale  cheek  fed  with  a  flickering  red, 

And  a  "  Bon  Dieu  garde  M'sieu  /  " 

But  a  grander  way  for  the  Sous-Prefet, 

And  a  bow  for  Ma'anYselle  Anne  ; 
And  a  mock  "  off-hat "  to  the  Notary's  cat, 

And  a  nod  to  the  Sacristan  : — 

For  ever  through  life  the  Cure  goes 
With  a  smile  on  his  kind  old  face — 

With  his  coat  worn  bare,  and  his  straggling  hair. 
And  his  green  umbrella-case. 

Austin  Dobson* 


THE  COURTLY  POETS 


A  sweet  attractive  kinde  of  grace, 

A  full  assurance  given  by  lookes, 

Continuall  comfort  in  a  face, 

The  lineaments  of  gospell  hookes, 

I  trowe  that  countenance  cannot  lie, 
Whose  thoughts  are  legible  in  the  eie. 

Was  never  eie  did  see  that  face, 

Was  never  eare  did  heare  that  tong, 

Was  never  minde  did  minde  his  grace, 

That  ever  thought  the  travell  long  ; 

But  eies  and  eares,  and  ev'ry  thought, 
Were  with  his  sweete  perfections  caught. 

Matthew  Roydon^ 


A  Description  of  a  Most  Noble  Lady      o 

IVE  place,  you  ladies,  and  begone  ! 

Boast  not  yourselves  at  all  ! 
For  here  at  hand  approacheth  one 
Whose  face  will  stain  you  all. 

The  virtue  of  her  lively  looks 
Excels  the  precious  stone  ; 

I  wish  to  have  none  other  books 
To  read  or  look  upon. 

In  each  of  her  two  crystal  eyes 

Smileth  a  naked  boy  ; 
It  would  you  all  in  heart  suffice 

To  see  that  lamp  of  joy. 

I  think  Nature  hath  lost  the  mould 
Where  she  her  shape  did  take  ; 

Or  else  I  doubt  if  Nature  could 
So  fair  a  creature  make. 

She  may  be  well  compared 

Unto  the  Phoenix  kind, 
Whose  like  was  never  seen  nor  heard, 

That  any  man  can  find. 
3'7 


In  life  she  is  Diana  chaste, 

In  truth  Penelope  ; 
In  work  and  eke  in  deed  stedfast, 

What  will  you  more  we  say  ? 

If  all  the  world  were  sought  so  far, 
Who  could  find  such  a  wight  ? 

Her  beauty  twinkleth  like  a  star 
Within  the  frosty  night. 

Her  roseal  colour  comes  and  goes 
With  such  a  comely  grace, 

More  ruddier,  too,  than  doth  the  rose 
Within  her  lively  face. 

At  Bacchus'  feast  none  shall  her  meet 

Ne  at  no  wanton  play, 
Nor  gazing  in  an  open  street, 

Nor  gadding  as  a  stray. 

The  modest  mirth  that  she  doth  use 
Is  mixed  with  shamefastness  ; 

All  vice  she  doth  wholly  refuse, 
And  hateth  idleness. 

O  Lord  !  it  is  a  world  to  see 

How  virtue  can  repair, 
And  deck  her  in  such  honesty, 

Whom  nature  made  so  fair. 

3-3 


Son" 


Truly  she  doth  so  far  exceed 

Our  women  nowadays, 
As  doth  the  gillyflower  a  weed  ; 

And  more  a  thousand  ways. 

How  might  I  do  to  get  a  grafif 

Of  this  unspotted  tree? 
For  all  the  rest  are  plain  but  chaff", 

Which  seem  good  corn  to  be. 

This  gift  alone  I  shall  her  give  : 
When  death  doth  what  he  can, 

Her  honest  fame  shall  ever  live 
Within  the  mouth  of  man. 

John  Heywooit(!\ 


T     OVE  not  me  for  comely  grace, 
— "*     I  <>r  my  pleasing  eye  or  fa.  <•, 
Nor  for  any  outward  part, 
No,  nor  for  my  constant  heart ; 
For  these  may  faile,  or  turn  to  ill, 

So  thou  and  I  shall  sever. 
Keep  therefore  a  true  woman's  eye, 
And  love  me  still,  but  know  not  why : 
So  hast  thou  the  same  reason  still 

To  doat  upon  me  ever. 

Anon. 


There  is  none,  O,  none  but  you  !  o         ^> 

r  I  ^HERE  is  none,  O,  none  but  you, 
•^       Who  from  me  estrange  the  sight, 
Whom  mine  eyes  affect  to  view, 

And  chained  ears  hear  with  delight. 


Others'  beauties  others  move  : 

In  you  I  all  the  graces  find  ; 
Such  are  the  effects  of  love, 

To  make  them  happy  that  are  kind. 

Women  in  frail  beauty  trust ; 

Only  seem  you  kind  to  me  ! 
Still  be  truly  kind  and  just, 

For  that  can't  dissembled  be. 

Dear,  afford  me  then  your  sight ! 

That,  surveying  all  your  looks, 
Endless  volumes  I  may  write, 

And  fill  the  world  with  envied  books. 

Which  when  after  ages  view, 
All  shall  wonder  and  despair, — 

Women,  to  find  a  man  so  true, 
And  men,  a  woman  half  so  fair  ! 

Robert,  Earl  of  Essex. 


320 


To  Celia 


to  me  only  with  thine  eyes, 
And  I  will  pledge  with  mine  ; 
Or  leave  a  kiss  but  in  the  cup, 

And  I'll  not  look  for  wine. 
The  thirst  that  from  the  soul  doth  rise 

Doth  ask  a  drink  divine  ; 
But  might  I  of  Jove's  nectar  sup, 
I  would  not  change  for  thine. 

I  sent  thee  late  a  rosy  wreath, 

Not  so  much  honouring  thee 
As  giving  it  a  hope  that  there 

It  could  not  wither'd  be  : 
But  thou  thereon  didst  only  breathe, 

And  sent'st  it  back  to  me  ; 
Since  when  it  grows,  and  smells,  I  swear, 

Not  of  itself,  but  thee  ! 

Ben  Junson. 


On  a  Girdle 


r  I  "HAT  which  her  slender  waist  confin'd, 
•*•       Shall  now  my  joyful  temples  bind  ; 
No  monarch  but  would  give  his  crown 
His  arms  might  do  what  this  has  done. 

It  was  my  Heaven's  extremest  sphere, 
The  pale  which  held  that  lovely  deer  • 
x  321 


My  joy,  my  grief,  my  hope,  my  love 
Did  all  within  this  circle  move  ! 

A  narrow  compass  !  and  yet  there 
Dwelt  all  that's  good,  and  all  that's  fair  , 
Give  me  but  what  this  riband  bound, 
Take  all  the  rest  the  sun  goes  round. 

Edmund  Waller. 


To  Althea,  from  Prison          o        o        <. 

~\  \  7 HEN  Love  with  unconfined  wings 

*  *       Hovers  within  my  gates, 
And  my  divine  Althea  brings 

To  whisper  at  the  grates  ; 
When  I  lie  tangled  in  her  hair, 

And  fetter'd  to  her  eye, 
The  birds  that  wanton  in  the  air 

Know  no  such  liberty. 


When  flowing  cups  run  swiftly  round 

With  no  allaying  Thames, 
Our  careless  heads  with  roses  bound, 

Our  hearts  with  loyal  flames  ; 
W'hen  thirsty  grief  in  wine  we  steep, 

When  healths  and  draughts  go  free, 
Fishes  that  tipple  in  the  deep 

Know  no  such  liberty. 
322 


When  (like  committed  linnets)  I 

With  shriller  throat  shall  sing 
The  sweetness,  mercy,  majesty, 

And  glories  of  my  King  ; 
When  I  shall  voice  aloud,  how  good 

He  is,  how  great  should  be, 
Enl.irgod  winds,  that  curl  the  flood, 

Know  no  such  liberty. 

Stone  walls  do  not  a  prison  make, 

Nor  iron  bars  a  cage  ; 
Minds  innocent  and  quiet  take 

That  for  a  hermitage  : 
If  I  have  freedom  in  my  love, 

And  in  my  soul  am  free, 
Angels  alone  that  soar  above 

Enjoy  such  liberty. 

Richard  Lovelace, 


An  Excellent  New  Ballad      «:>        o 

MY  dear  and  only  love,  I  pray 
That  little  world  of  thec 
Be  governed  by  no  other  sway 

Than  purest  monarchy  ; 
For  if  confusion  have  a  part, 

Which  virtuous  souls  abhor, 
.And  hold  ;i  .vc/Win  thine  heart, 
I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

323 


As  Alexander  I  will  reign, 

And  I  will  reign  alone  ; 
My  thoughts  did  evermore  disdain 

A  rival  on  my  throne. 
He  either  fears  his  fate  too  much, 

Or  his  deserts  are  small, 
That  dares  not  put  it  to  the  touch, 

To  gain  or  lose  it  all. 

But  I  will  reign  and  govern  still, 

And  always  give  the  law, 
And  have  each  subject  at  my  will, 

And  all  to  stand  in  awe  ; 
But  'gainst  my  batteries  if  I  find 

Thou  kick,  or  vex  me  sore, 
As  that  thou  set  me  up  a  blind, 

I'll  never  love  thee  more. 

And  in  the  empire  of  thine  heart, 

Where  I  should  solely  be, 
If  others  do  pretend  a  part, 

Or  dare  to  vie  with  me, 
Or  if  committees  thou  erect, 

And  go  on  such  a  score, 
I'll  laugh  and  sing  at  thy  neglect, 

And  never  love  thee  more. 

But  if  thou  wilt  prove  faithful,  then, 
And  constant  of  thy  word, 

I'll  make  thee  glorious  by  my  pen, 
And  famous  by  my  sword  j 
324 


I'll  serve  thee  in  such  noble  ways 

Was  never  heard  before  ; 
I'll  crown  and  deck  thee  all  with  bays, 

And  love  thee  more  and  more. 

James,  Marquis  of Mont  rose. 


To  Lucasta,  on  going  to  the  Wars    o        *e> 

"  I  ^ELL  me  not,  Sweet,  I  am  unkind, 
-*•       That  from  the  nunnery 
Of  your  chaste  breast  and  quiet  mind 
To  war  and  arms  I  fly. 

True  :  a  new  Mistress  now  I  chase, 

The  first  foe  in  the  field  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  embrace 

A  sword,  a  horse,  a  shield. 

Yet  this  inconstancy  is  such 

As  you  too  shall  adore  ; 
I  could  not  love  thee,  Dear,  so  much, 

Lov'd  I  not  Honour  more  ! 

Richard  Lovelace. 


(iratiana  Dancing     *t>         o        o        <• 

SHE  beat  the  happy  pavement— 
By  such  a  star  made  firmament, 
Which  now  no  more  the  roof  envies  ! 

325 


But  swells  up  high,  with  Atlas  even, 
Bearing  the  brighter,  nobler  heaven, 
And,  in  her,  all  the  deities. 

Each  step  trod  out  a  Lover's  thought, 
And  the  ambitious  hopes  he  brought 
Chain'd  to  her  brave  feet  with  such  arts, 
Such  sweet  command  and  gentle  awe, 
As,  when  she  ceased,  we  sighing  saw 
The  floor  lay  paved  with  broken  hearts. 

Richard  Lovelact, 


To  his  Coy  Mistress  o        o        <^        <* 

T  T  AD  we  but  world  enough  and  time, 
•*-  -*•     This  coyness,  lady,  were  no  crime. 
We  would  sit  down  and  think  which  way 
To  walk,  and  pass  our  long  love's  day. 
Thou  by  the  Indian  Ganges'  side 
Shouldst  rubies  find  :  I  by  the  tide 
Of  Humber  would  complain.     I  would 
Love  you  ten  years  before  the  Flood, 
And  you  should,  if  you  please,  refuse 
Till  the  conversion  of  the  Jews. 
My  vegetable  love  should  grow 
Vaster  than  empires  and  more  slow. 
An  hundred  years  should  go  to  praise 
Thine  eyes,  and  on  thy  forehead  gaze  ; 
326 


Two  hundred  to  adore  each  breast, 

But  thirty  thousand  to  the  rest  ; 

An  age  at  least  to  every  part, 

And  the  last  age  should  show  your  heart 

For,  lady,  you  deserve  this  state, 

Nor  would  I  love  at  lower  rate. 

But  at  my  back  I  always  hear 
Time's  winged  chariot  hurrying  near, 
And  yonder  all  before  us  lie 
Deserts  of  vast  eternity. 
Thy  beauty  shall  no  more  be  found, 
Nor  in  thy  marble  vault  shall  sound 
My  echoing  song  ;  then  worms  shall  try 
That  long-preserved  virginity, 
And  your  quaint  honour  turn  to  dust, 
And  into  ashes  all  my  lust. 
The  grave's  a  fine  and  private  place, 
But  none,  I  think,  do  there  embrace. 

Now,  therefore,  while  the  youthful  hue 
Sits  on  thy  skin  like  morning  dew, 
And  while  thy  willing  soul  transpires 
At  every  pore  with  instant  fires, 
Now,  let  us  sport  us  while  we  may  ; 
And  now,  like  amorous  birds  of  prey, 
Rather  at  once  our  time  devour, 
Than  languish  in  his  slow-chapt  power  1 
Let  us  roll  all  our  strength,  and  all 
Our  sweetness,  up  into  one  ball ; 
And  tear  our  pleasures  with  rough  strife, 
Thorough  the  iron  gates  of  life  ! 
327 


Thus,  though  we  cannot  make  our  sun 
Stand  still,  yet  we  will  make  him  run. 

Andrew  Maruell. 


On  a  Halfpenny  which  a  Young  Lady  gave  a 
Beggar,  and  which  the  Author  redeemed  for 
Half  a  Crown  *£>  •£>  e>  o  o 

"TAEAR  little,  pretty,  favourite  ore, 

••"•^     That  once  increased  Gloriana's  store  ; 

That  lay  within  her  bosom  blest, 

Gods  might  have  envied  thee  thy  rest  ! 

I've  read,  imperial  Jove  of  old 

For  love  transform'd  himself  to  gold  : 

And  why  for  a  more  lovely  lass 

May  he  not  now  have  lurk'd  in  brass  ? 

O,  rather  than  from  her  he'd  part 

He'd  shut  that  charitable  heart, 

That  heart  whose  goodness  nothing  less 

Than  his  vast  power  could  dispossess. 

From  Gloriana's  gentle  touch 

Thy  mighty  value  now  is  such, 

That  thou  to  me  art  worth  alone 

More  than  his  medals  are  to  Sloane. 

Henry  Fielding. 


328 


An  Elegy 


T  T  NDERNEATH  this  sable  hearse 
^      Lies  the  subject  of  all  verse, 

Sidney's  sister — Pembroke's  mother — 

Death,  ere  thou  hast  slain  another, 

Learn 'd  and  fair  and  good  as  she, 

1*11116  shall  throw  his  dart  at  thee. 

William  Browne. 


An  Epitaph 


Vouldst  thou  hear  what  man  can  say 
In  a  little?  —  reader,  stay. 

T  T  NDERNEATH  this  stone  doth  lie 
^      As  much  beauty  as  could  die  ; 

Which  in  life  did  harbour  give 

To  more  virtue  than  doth  live. 

If  at  all  she  had  a  fault, 

Leave  it  buried  in  the  vault. 

One  name  was  Elizabeth, 

The  other,  —  let  it  sleep  with  death  : 

Fitter  where  it  died  to  tell, 

Than  that  it  lived  at  all.     Farewell  ! 

Ren  Jonson, 


329 


Love  and  Age         o        o        o        o        < 

T  PLAY'D  with  you  'mid  cowslips  blowing, 
-*-     When  I  was  six  and  you  were  four  ; 
When  garlands  weaving,  flower-balls  throwing, 

Were  pleasures  soon  to  please  no  more. 
Thro'  groves  and  meads,  o'er  grass  and  heather, 

With  little  playmates,  to  and  fro, 
We  wander'd  hand  in  hand  together ; 

But  that  was  sixty  years  ago. 


You  grew  a  lovely  roseate  maiden, 

And  still  our  early  love  was  strong  ; 
Still  with  no  carf.  our  days  were  laden, 

They  glided  joyously  along  ; 
And  I  did  love  you  very  dearly — 

How  dearly,  words  want  power  to  show  ; 
I  thought  your  heart  was  touched  as  nearly  ; 

But  that  was  fifty  years  ago. 


Then  other  lovers  came  around  you, 

Your  beauty  grew  from  year  to  year, 
And  many  a  splendid  circle  found  you 

The  centre  of  its  glittering  sphere. 
I  saw  you  then,  first  vows  forsaking, 

On  rank  and  wealth  your  hand  bestow  ; 
O,  then,  I  thought  my  heart  was  breaking, — 

But  that  was  forty  years  ago. 

33° 


And  I  lived  on,  to  wed  another : 

No  cause  she  gave  me  to  repine  ; 
And  when  I  heard  you  were  a  mother, 

I  did  not  wish  the  children  mine. 
My  own  young  flock,  in  fair  progression, 

Made  up  a  pleasant  Christmas  row  : 
My  joy  in  them  was  past  expression  ; — 

But  that  was  thirty  years  ago. 

You  grew  a  matron  plump  and  comely, 

You  dwelt  in  fashion's  brightest  blaze  ; 
My  earthly  lot  was  far  more  homely  ; 

But  I  too  had  my  festal  days. 
No  merrier  eyes  have  ever  glisten'd 

Around  the  hearth-stone's  wintry  glow, 
Than  when  my  youngest  child  was  christen'd  : 

But  that  was  twenty  years  ago. 

Time  passed.     My  eldest  girl  was  married, 

And  I  am  now  a  grandsire  grey  ; 
One  pet  of  four  years  old  I've  carried 

Among  the  wild-flower'd  meads  to  play. 
In  our  old  fields  of  childish  pleasure, 

Where  now,  as  then,  the  cowslips  blow, 
She  fills  her  basket's  ample  measure, — 

And  that  is  not  ten  years  ago. 

But  though  first  love's  impassioned  blindness 
Has  passed  away  in  colder  light, 

I  still  have  thought  of  you  with  kindness, 
And  shall  do,  till  our  last  good-night. 

33' 


The  ever-rolling  silent  hours 

Will  bring  a  time  we  shall  not  know, 

When  our  young  days  of  gathering  flowers 
Will  be  an  hundred  years  ago. 

T.  L.  Peacock. 


E.  G.  de  R.  o        «£>        o        o        o        <? 

\  1  7HY  should  I  seek  her  spell  to  decompose, 

*  •       Or  to  its  source  each  rill  of  influence  trace 
That  feeds  the  brimming  river  of  her  grace  ? 
The  petals  numbered  but  degrade  to  prose 
Summer's  triumphant  poem  of  the  rose  : 
Enough  for  me  to  watch  the  wavering  chase, 
Like  wind  o'er  grass,  of  moods  across  her  face, 
Fairest  in  motion,  fairer  in  repose. 
Steeped  in  her  sunshine,  let  me,  while  I  may, 
Partake  the  bounty  :  I  content  should  be 
That  her  mirth  cheats  my  temples  of  their  grey, 
Her  charm  makes  years  long  spent  seem  yet  to  be. 
Wit,  goodness,  grace,  swift  flash  from  grave  to  gay, — 
All  these  are  good,  but  better  far  is  she. 

J.  R.  Lowell. 


332 


THE   POST 


"  I  will  give  you  a  rule,"  said  her  mother,  "  my  dear: 
Just  think  for  a  moment  your  sister  is  here, 
And  what  would  you  tell  her?  consider,  and  then, 
Though  silent  your  tongue,  you  can  speak  with  your  pen." 
Mrs.  Elisabeth  Turner  (on  Letter-  Writing). 


To  his  Son  Vincent  Corbet       o        o        <; 

\\  /"HAT  I  shall  leave  thee  none  can  tell, 

*  ^       But  all  shall  say  I  wish  thee  well  : 
I  wish  thee,  Vin,  before  all  wealth, 
Both  bodily  and  ghostly  health. 
Not  too  much  wealth,  nor  wit  come  to  thee, 
So  much  of  either  may  undo  thee. 
I  wish  thee  learning,  not  for  show, 
Enough  for  to  instruct,  and  know. 
Not  such  as  gentlemen  require, 
To  prate  at  table  or  at  fire. 
I  wish  thee  all  thy  mother's  graces, 
Thy  father's  fortune— and  his  places. 
I  wish  thee  friends,  and  one  at  Court, 
Not  to  build  on,  but  support. 
To  keep  thee,  not  in  doing  many 
Oppressions,  but  from  suffering  any. 
I  wish  thee  peace  in  all  thy  ways, 
Nor  lazy  nor  contentious  days  ; 
And  when  thy  soul  and  body  part, 
As  innocent  as  now  thou  art. 

X.  Corbet. 

335 


To  Lady  Margaret  Cavendish  Holles-Harley,  after- 
wards Duchess  of  Portland,  when  a  Child    o 

TV  /T  Y  noble,  lovely,  little  Peggy, 
•*•*  ^     Let  this  my  first  epistle  beg  ye, 
At  dawn  of  morn,  and  close  of  even, 
To  lift  your  heart  and  hands  to  Heaven. 
In  double  beauty  say  your  prayer  •. 
Our  Father  first,— then  Notre  Pere 
And,  dearest  child,  along  the  day, 
In  every  thing  you  do  and  say, 
Obey  and  please  my  lord  and  lady, 
So  God  shall  love,  and  angels  aid  ye. 

If  to  these  precepts  you  attend, 
No  second  letter  need  I  send, 
And  so  I  rest  your  constant  friend. 

Matthew  Prior. 


To  a  Child  of  Quality,  Five  Years  Old,  1 704.     The 
Author  then  Forty      o        o         o         o 

T    ORDS,  knights  and  squires,  the  numerous  band 
•*-^    That  wear  the  fair  Miss  Mary's  fetters, 
Were  summon'd  by  her  high  command, 
To  show  their  passions  by  their  letters. 

My  pen  amongst  the  rest  I  took, 

Lest  those  bright  eyes  that  cannot  read 
336 


Should  dart  their  kindling  fires,  and  Icok 
The  power  they  have  to  be  obey'd. 

Nor  quality,  nor  reputation, 

Forbid  me  yet  my  flame  to  tell ; 
Dear  five-years-old  befriends  my  passion, 

And  I  may  write  till  she  can  spell. 

For,  while  she  makes  her  silk-worms  beds 
With  all  the  tender  things  I  swear  ; 

Whilst  all  the  house  my  passion  reads, 
ID  papers  round  her  baby's  hair  ; 

She  may  receive  and  own  my  flame, 

For,  though  the  strictest  prudes  should  know  it, 
She'll  pass  for  a  most  virtuous  dame, 

And  I  for  an  unhappy  poet. 

Then  too,  alas  !  when  she  shall  tear 
The  rhymes  some  younger  rival  sends  ; 

She'll  give  me  leave  to  write,  I  fear, 
And  we  shall  still  continue  friends. 

For,  as  our  different  ages  move, 

'Tis  so  ordained,  (would  Fate  but  mend  it  !) 
That  I  shall  be  past  making  love, 

When  she  begins  to  comprehend  it. 

Matthew  Prior. 


337 


Stee\e's  Way 


M 


I 

...  ADAM, — With  what  Language  shall  I  addresse 
•*•-*•  my  Lovely  Fair  to  acquaint  Her  with  the 
Sentiments  of  an  Heart  she  delights  to  Torture  ? 
I  have  not  a  minute's  Quiet  out  of  yr  sight ;  and,  when 
I'me  with  You,  You  use  me  with  so  much  distance, 
that  I  am  still  in  a  State  of  Absence  heightened  with 
a  View  of  the  Charms  which  I  am  deny'd  to  Approach. 
In  a  word  You  must  give  Me  either  a  Fan,  a  Mask 
or  a  Glove  you  have  Wore  or  I  cannot  Live,  other- 
wise You  must  expect  Pie  Kiss  Your  hand,  or  when 
I  next  sit  by  You  Steal  your  Handkerchief.  You 
Your  self  are  too  Great  a  Bounty  to  be  receiv'd  at 
Once  therefore  I  must  be  prepar'd  by  degrees  least 
the  Mighty  Gift  distract  Me  with  Joy.  Dear  Mrs. 
Scurlock  I'me  tir'd  with  calling  You  by  that  name 
therefore  Say  the  day  in  which  Youle  take  that  of, 
Madam,  Yr  Most  Obedient  Most  devoted  Hubl  Sernt 

RICHD  STEELE. 

II 

Sepbr  ~ist  1707 
SNT  JAMES'S  COFFEE-HOUSE. 

MADAM, — It  is  the  hardest  thing  in  the  World  to 
be  in  Love  and  yet  attend  businesse.  As  for  me,  all 
that  speake  to  me  find  me  out,  and  I  must  Lock 
my  self  up,  or  other  people  will  do  it  for  me. 

A  Gentleman  ask'd  me  this  morning  what  news 
338 


from  Lisbon,  and  I  answer'd  She's  Exquisitely  hand- 
some. Another  desir'd  to  know  when  I  had  been 
last  at  Hampton  Court,  I  reply'd  twill  be  on  Tuesday 
come  sc'nnight.  Prethee  Allow  me  at  least  to  kisse 
your  hand  before  that  day,  that  my  mind  may  be 
in  some  Composure.  Oh  Love 

"A  thousand  Torments  dwell  about  thee, 
Yet  who  would  Live  to  Live  without  thee?" 

Methinks  I  could  write  a  Volume  to  you  but  all  the 
Language  on  earth  would  fail  in  saying  how  much, 
and  with  what  disinterested  passion,  I  am  Ever  Y™ 

RICHD  STEELE. 


Ill 

DEAR,  LOVELY  MRS.  SCURLOCK,  —  I  have  been 
in  very  Good  company  where  your  Health  under  the 
Character  of  the  Woman  I  lov'd  best  has  often  been 
drank.  So  that  I  may  say  I  am  Dead  Drunk  for 
your  sake,  which  is  more  yn  I  dye  for  you. 

Y™  R :  STEELE. 

IV 

Sepf'r  19'*,  \7<&,five  in  the  F.-'tnin^. 

DEAR  PRUE, — I  send  you  seven-pen'orth  of  wall 
nutts  at  five  a  penny  which  is  the  greatest  proof  I 
can  give  you  at  present  of  my  being  with  my  whole 

Heart 

Y"  RICH"  S  1 1 

339 


Ocf"-  8'A,  1708. 

DEAR  PRUE, — This  brings  you  a  Quarter  of  a 
pound  of  Bohee,  and  as  much  of  Green  Tea,  Both 
which  I  hope  you  will  find  good.  Tomorrow  morning 
Yr  Favourite  Mr  Addison  and  I  shall  sett  out  for 
Hampton-Court,  He  to  meet  some  great  men  there, 
I  to  see  You,  who  am  but  what  you  make  me. — 
Yrs  With  the  Utmost  Fondnesse 

RICHD  STEELE. 

VI 

March  II'A,  1708-9. 

DEAR  PRUE, — I  enclose  five  guineas,  but  can't 
come  home  to  dinner.  Dear  Little  Woman  take  care 
of  thy  Self,  and  eat  and  drink  Chearfully. 

RICHD  STEELE. 

VII 

May  22rf,  1717. 

DEAR  PRUE, — Your  Son  is  now  with  Me  very 
Merry  in  Rags,  which  Condition  I  am  going  to 
better ;  For  He  shall  have  new  things  immediately. 
He  is  extremely  pretty  and  has  his  face  sweetened 
with  something  of  the  Venus  His  Mother,  which  is 
no  small  delight  to  the  Vulcan  who  begott  Him. — 
Ever  yours, 

RICHARD  STEELE. 


340 


Stella's  Birthday,  17 18        o         <?•        *o 

TELLA  this  day  is  thirty-four, 

(We  shan't  dispute  a  year  or  more  :) 
However,  Stella,  be  not  troubled, 
Although  thy  size  and  years  are  doubled 
Since  first  I  saw  thee  at  sixteen, 
The  brightest  virgin  on  the  green  ; 
So  little  is  thy  form  declined  ; 
Made  up  so  largely  in  thy  mind. 

O,  would  it  please  the  gods  to  split 
Thy  beauty,  size,  and  years,  and  wit  ! 
No  age  could  furnish  out  a  pair 
Of  nymphs  so  graceful,  wise,  and  fair  ; 
With  half  the  lustre  of  your  eyes, 
With  half  your  wit,  your  years,  and  size. 
And  then,  before  it  grew  too  late, 
How  should  I  beg  of  gentle  fate 
(That  either  nymph  might  have  her  swain) 
To  split  my  worship  too  in  twain. 

Jonatltan  Swift. 


To  Mr.  Thomas  Southerne  on  his  Birthday,  1 74* 

ESIGN'D  to  live,  prepar'd  to  die, 

With  not  one  sin,  but  poetry, 
This  day  Tom's  fair  account  has  run 
(Without  a  blot)  to  eighty-one. 


Kind  Boyle,  before  his  poet,  lays 

A  table,  with  a  cloth  of  bays  ; 

And  Ireland,  mother  of  sweet  singers, 

Presents  her  harp  still  to  his  fingers. 

The  feast,  his  tow'ring  genius  marks 

In  yonder  wild  goose  and  the  larks  ! 

The  mushrooms  show  his  wit  was  sudden  ! 

And  for  his  judgment,  lo  a  pudden  ! 

Roast  beef,  though  old,  proclaims  him  stout, 

And  grace,  although  a  bard,  devout. 

May  Tom,  whom  Heav'n  sent  down  to  raise 

The  price  of  prologues  and  of  plays, 

Be  ev'ry  birthday  more  a  winner, 

Digest  his  thirty-thousandth  dinner  ; 

Walk  to  his  grave  without  reproach, 

And  scorn  a  rascal  and  a  coach. 

Alexander  Pope. 


Walpole's  Way         •*>         «£>         o         o         *e> 

I 

T  F  you  are  like  me,  you  are  fretting  at  the  weather. 

*-  We  have  not  a  leaf,  yet,  large  enough  to  make 
an  apron  for  a  Miss  Eve  of  two  years  old.  Flowers 
and  fruits,  if  they  come  at  all  this  year,  must  meet 
together  as  they  do  in  a  Dutch  picture  ;  our  lords  and 
ladies,  however,  couple  as  if  it  were  the  real  Gioventu 
dell'  anno.  Lord  Albermarle,  you  know,  has  dis- 
342 


appointed  all  his  brothers  and  my  niece  ;  and  Lord 
Fitzwilliam  is  declared  sposo  to  Lady  Charlotte 
Ponsonby.  It  is  a  pretty  match,  and  makes  Lord 
Besborough  as  happy  as  possible. 

Masquerades  proceed  in  spite  of  Church  and  King. 
That  knave  the  Bishop  of  London  persuaded  that 
good  soul  the  Archbishop  to  remonstrate  against 
them ;  but  happily  the  age  prefers  silly  follies  to 
serious  ones,  and  dominos,  comme  de  raison,  carry  it 
against  lawn  sleeves. 

There  is  a  new  Institution  that  begins  to  make,  and 
if  it  proceeds,  will  make  a  considerable  noise.  It  is  a 
club  of  both  sexes  to  be  erected  at  Almack's,  on  the 
model  of  that  of  the  men  of  White's.  Mrs.  Fitzroy, 
Lady  Pembroke,  Mrs.  Meynell,  Lady  Mclyneux,  Miss 
Pelham,  and  Miss  Lloyd  are  the  foundresses.  I  am 
ashamed  to  say  I  am  of  so  young  and  fashionable  a 
society  ;  but  as  they  are  people  I  live  with,  I  choose 
to  be  idle  rather  than  morose.  I  can  go  to  a  young 
supper,  without  forgetting  how  much  sand  is  run  out 
of  the  hour-glass.  Yet  I  shall  never  pass  a  triste  old 
age  in  turning  the  Psalms  into  Latin  or  English  verse. 
My  plan  is  to  pass  away  calmly  ;  cheerfully  if  I  can  ; 
sometimes  to  amuse  myself  with  the  rising  generation, 
but  to  take  care  not  to  fatigue  them,  nor  weary  them 
with  old  stories,  which  will  not  interest  them,  as  their 
adventures  do  not  interest  me.  Age  would  indulge 
prejudices  if  it  did  not  sometimes  polish  itself  against 
younger  acquaintance,  but  it  must  be  the  work  of  folly 
if  one  hopes  to  contract  friendships  with  them,  or 

343 


desires  it,  or  thinks  one  can  become  the  same  follies, 
or  expects  that  they  should  do  more  than  bear  one  for 
one's  good-humour.  In  short,  they  are  a  pleasant 
medicine,  that  one  should  take  care  not  to  grow  fond 
of.  Medicines  hurt  when  habit  has  annihilated  their 
force  ;  but  you  see  I  am  in  no  danger.  I  intend  by 
degrees  to  decrease  my  opium,  instead  of  augmenting 
the  dose.  Good-night !  You  see  I  never  let  our 
long-lived  friendship  drop,  though  you  give  it  so  few 
opportunities  of  breathing. 


II 

SERENDIPITY 

r  I  "HIS  discovery  I  made  by  a  talisman,  which  Mr. 
-^  Chute  calls  the  Sortes  Walpoliance,  by  which  I 
find  every  thing  I  want,  a  pointe  nominee,  wherever  I 
dip  for  it.  This  discovery,  indeed,  is  almost  of  that 
kind  which  I  call  "  Serendipity"  a  very  expressive 
word,  which,  as  I  have  nothing  better  to  tell  you,  I 
shall  endeavour  to  explain  to  you  :  you  will  under- 
stand it  better  by  the  derivation  than  by  the  definition. 
I  once  read  a  silly  fairy  tale,  called  "  The  Three  Princes 
of  Serendip  "  :  as  their  Highnesses  travelled,  they  were 
always  making  discoveries,  by  accidents  and  sagacity, 
of  things  which  they  were  not  in  quest  of :  for  instance, 
one  of  them  discovered  that  a  mule  blind  of  the  right 
eye  had  travelled  the  same  road  lately,  because  the 
grass  was  eaten  only  on  the  left  side,  where  it  was 
344 


worse  than  on  the  right — now  do  you  understand 
Serendipity  ?  One  of  the  most  remarkable  instances 
of  this  accidental  sagacity  (for  you  must  observe  that 
no  discovery  of  a  thing  you  are  looking  for  comes 
under  this  description)  was  of  my  Lord  Shaftesbury, 
who,  happening  to  dine  at  Lord  Chancelloi 
Clarendon's,  found  out  the  marriage  of  the  Duke 
of  York  and  Mrs.  Hyde,  by  the  respect  with  which 
her  mother  treated  her  at  table. 

Horace  Walpole. 


Vinny  Bourne          o         o        o        o         o 

T  LOVE  the  memory  of  Vinny  Bourne.  I  think 
•*-  him  a  better  Latin  poet  than  Tibullus,  Propertius, 
Ausonius,  or  any  of  the  writers  in  his  way,  except 
Ovid,  and  not  at  all  inferior  to  him.  I  love  him,  too, 
with  a  love  of  partiality,  because  he  was  usher  of  the 
fifth  form  at  Westminster  when  I  passed  through  it. 
He  was  so  good-natured,  and  so  indolent,  that  I  lost 
more  than  I  got  by  him  ;  for  he  made  me  as  idle  as 
himself.  He  was  such  a  sloven,  as  if  he  had  trusted 
to  his  genius  as  a  cloak  for  everything  that  could 
disgust  you  in  his  person  ;  and  indeed  in  his  writings 
he  has  almost  made  amends  for  all.  His  humour  is 
entirely  original ;  he  can  speak  of  a  magpie  or  a  cat 
in  terms  so  exquisitely  appropriated  to  the  character 
he  draws,  that  one  would  suppose  him  animated  by 

345 


the  spirit  of  the  creature  he  describes.  And  with  all 
this  drollery  there  is  a  mixture  of  rational,  and  even 
religious,  reflection  at  times,  and  always  an  air  of 
pleasantry,  good-nature  and  humanity,  that  makes 
him,  in  my  mind,  one  of  the  most  amiable  writers  in 
the  world.  It  is  not  common  to  meet  with  a  writer 
who  can  make  you  smile,  and  yet  at  nobody's  expense  ; 
who  is  always  entertaining,  and  yet  always  harmless  ; 
and  who,  though  always  elegant,  and  classical  to  a 
degree  not  always  found  even  in  the  classics  them- 
selves, charms  more  by  the  simplicity  and  playfulness 
of  his  ideas,  than  by  the  neatness  and  purity  of  his 
verse  ;  yet  such  was  poor  Vinny.  I  remember  seeing 
the  Duke  of  Richmond  set  fire  to  his  greasy  locks, 
and  box  his  ears  to  put  it  out  again.  , 

W.  Coivper. 


The  Candidate        -o         •&         ^>         o        •£> 

~\\  7"E  were  sitting  yesterday  after  dinner — the  two 
*  *  ladies  and  myself — very  composedly,  and 
without  the  least  apprehension  of  any  such  intrusion, 
in  our  snug  parlour,  one  lady  knitting,  the  other 
netting,  and  the  gentleman  winding  worsted,  when, 
to  our  unspeakable  surprise,  a  mob  appeared  before 
the  window,  a  smart  rap  was  heard  at  the  door,  the 
boys  hallooed,  and  the  maid  announced  Mr.  Grenville. 
Puss  was  unfortunately  let  out  of  her  box,  so  that  the 
candidate,  with  all  his  good  friends  at  his  heels,  was 
346 


refused  admittance  at  the  grand  entry,  and  referred  to 
the  back  door,  as  the  only  possible  way  of  approach. 

Candidates  are  creatures  not  very  susceptible  of 
affronts,  and  would  rather,  I  suppose,  climb  in  at  a 
window  than  be  absolutely  excluded.  In  a  minute 
the  yard,  the  kitchen,  and  the  parlour  were  filled. 
Mr.  Grenville,  advancing  towards  me,  shook  me  by 
the  hand  with  a  degree  of  cordiality  that  was  extremely 
seducing.  As  soon  as  he  and  as  many  more  as  could 
find  chairs  were  seated,  he  began  to  open  the  intent 
of  his  visit.  I  told  him  I  had  no  vote,  for  which  he 
readily  gave  me  credit.  I  assured  him  I  had  no 
influence,  which  he  was  not  equally  inclined  to  believe, 
and  the  less,  no  doubt,  because  Mr.  Ashburner,  the 
drapier,  addressing  himself  to  me  at  that  moment, 
informed  me  that  I  had  a  great  deal.  Supposing  that 
I  could  not  be  possessed  of  such  a  treasure  without 
knowing  it,  I  ventured  to  confirm  my  first  assertion 
by  saying  that  if  I  had  any  I  was  utterly  at 
a  loss  to  imagine  where  it  could  be,  or  wherein  it 
consisted.  Thus  ended  the  conference.  Mr.  Grenville 
squeezed  me  by  the  hand  again,  kissed  the  ladies,  and 
withdrew.  He  kissed  likewise  the  maid  in  the  kitchen, 
and  seemed  upon  the  whole  a  most  loving,  kissing, 
kind-hearted  gentleman.  He  is  very  young,  genteel, 
and  handsome.  He  has  a  pair  of  very  good  eyes  in 
his  head,  which  not  being  sufficient,  as  it  should  seem, 
for  the  many  nice  and  difficult  purposes  of  a  senator, 
he  has  a  third  also,  which  he  wore  suspended  by  a 
riband  from  his  buttonhole.  The  boys  hallooed,  the 
347 


dogs  barked,  puss  scampered  ;  the  hero,  with  his  long 
train  of  obsequious  followers,  withdrew. 

W.  Coivper. 


Keats's  Way*s*       o        o        o        o        o 
I.  MR.  DILKE 

'  I  "HE  place  I  am  speaking  of  puts  me  in  mind  of  a 
-*-  circumstance  which  occurred  lately  at  Dilke's. 
I  think  it  very  rich  and  dramatic  and  quite  illustrative 
of  the  little  quiet  fun  that  he  will  enjoy  sometimes. 
First  I  must  tell  you  that  their  house  is  at  the  corner 
of  Great  Smith  Street,  so  that  some  of  the  windows 
look  into  one  street,  and  the  back  windows  into 
another  round  the  corner.  Dilke  had  some  old  people 
to  dinner—  I  know  not  who,  but  there  were  two  old 
ladies  among  them.  Brown  was  there  —they  had 
known  him  from  a  child.  Brown  is  very  pleasant 
with  old  women,  and  on  that  day  it  seems  behaved 
himself  so  winningly  that  they  became  hand  and  glove 
together,  and  a  little  complimentary.  Brown  was 
obliged  to  depart  early.  He  bid  them  good-bye  and 
passed  into  the  passage.  No  sooner  was  his  back 
turned  than  the  old  women  began  lauding  him. 
When  Brown  had  reached  the  street  door,  and  was 
just  going,  Dilke  threw  up  the  window  and  call'd  : 
"  Brown  !  Brown  !  They  say  you  look  younger  than 
ever  you  did."  Brown  went  on  and  had  just  turned 
the  corner  into  the  other  street  when  Dilke  appeared 
348 


at  the  back  window,  crying  :  "  Brown  !  Brown  !     By 
God,  they  say  you're  handsome  !  " 

II.  UNCLE  DERHALL 

you  know  Uncle  Derhall?  He  is  a  little  man 
with  an  innocent  powdered  upright  head— he 
lisps  with  a  protruded  underlip — he  has  two  nieces, 
each  one  would  weigh  three  of  him— one  for  height 
and  the  other  for  breadth — he  knew  Bartolozzi.  He 
gave  a  supper,  and  ranged  his  bottles  of  wine  all  up 
the  Kitchen  and  Cellar  stairs — quite  ignorant  of  what 
might  be  drank — it  might  have  been  a  good  joke  to 
pour  on  the  sly  bottle  after  bottle  into  a  washing  tub 
and  roar  for  more.  If  you  were  to  trip  him  up  it 
would  discompose  a  Pigtail  and  bring  his  under  lip 
nearer  to  his  nose.  He  never  had  the  good  luck  to 
lose  a  silk  Handkerchief  in  a  Crowd,  and  therefore  has 
only  one  topic  of  conversation — Bartolozzi. 

III.  WINCHESTER  IN  1819 

'  I  "HE  side  streets  here  are  excessively  maiden- 
-*-  ladylike :  the  door-steps  always  fresh  from  the 
flannel.  The  knockers  have  a  staid,  serious,  nay  almost 
awful  quietness  about  them.  I  never  saw  so  quiet  a 
collection.  Lions'  and  Rams'  heads.  The  doors  are 
of  most  part  black,  with  a  little  brass  handle  just  above 
the  keyhole,  so  that  in  Winchester  a  man  may  very 
quietly  shut  himself  out  of  his  own  house. 

John  Keats. 

349 


A  Poet's  Son  -o        o        <£>        o 

25  Nov.,  1819. 


MISS  WORDSWORTH,  You  will  think  me 
negligent  but  I  wanted  to  see  more  of  Willy, 
before  I  ventured  to  express  a  prediction.  Till 
yesterday  I  had  barely  seen  him  —  Virgilium  Tantum 
Vidi  —  but  yesterday  he  gave  us  his  small  company 
to  a  bullock's  heart  —  and  I  can  pronounce  him  a  lad 
of  promise.  He  is  no  pedant  nor  bookworm,  so  far 
I  can  answer.  Perhaps  he  has  hitherto  paid  too  little 
attention  to  other  men's  inventions,  preferring,  like 
Lord  Foppington,  the  "natural  sprouts  of  his  own." 
But  he  has  observation,  and  seems  thoroughly  awake. 
I  am  ill  at  remembering  other  people's  bon  mots,  but 
the  following  are  a  few.  Being  taken  over  Waterloo 
Bridge,  he  remarked  that  if  we  had  no  mountains, 
we  had  a  fine  river  at  least,  which  was  a  Touch  of 
the  Comparative,  but  then  he  added  in  a  strain  which 
augured  less  for  his  future  abilities  as  a  Political 
Economist,  that  he  supposed  they  must  take  at  least 
a  pound  a  week  Toll.  Like  a  curious  naturalist  he 
inquired  if  the  tide  did  not  come  up  a  little  salty. 
This  being  satisfactorily  answered,  he  put  another 
question  as  to  the  flux  and  reflux,  which  being  rather 
cunningly  evaded  than  artfully  solved  by  that  she- 
Aristotle  Mary,  who  muttered  something  about  its 
getting  up  an  hour  sooner  and  sooner  every  day,  he 
sagely  replied,  "Then  it  must  come  to  the  same 
thing  at  last,"  which  was  a  speech  worthy  of  an 

35° 


infant  Halley !  The  Lion  in  the  'Change  by  no 
means  came  up  to  his  ideal  standard.  So  impossible 
it  is  for  Nature  in  any  of  her  works  to  come  up  to 
the  standard  of  a  child's  imagination.  The  whelps 
(Lionets)  he  was  sorry  to  find  were  dead,  and  on 
particular  enquiry  his  old  friend  the  Ouran  Outang 
had  gone  the  way  of  all  flesh  also.  The  grand  Tiger 
was  also  sick,  and  expected  in  no  short  time  to 
exchange  this  transitory  world  for  another — or  none. 
But  again,  there  was  a  Golden  Eagle  (I  do  not  mean 
that  of  Charing)  which  did  much  arride  and  console 
him.  William's  genius,  I  take  it,  leans  a  little  to  the 
figurative,  for  being  at  play  at  Tricktrack  (a  kind  of 
minor  Billiard-table  which  we  keep  for  smaller  wights, 
and  sometimes  refresh  our  own  mature  fatigues  with 
taking  a  hand  at)  not  being  able  to  hit  a  ball  he  had 
iterate  aimed  at,  he  cried  out,  "  I  cannot  hit  that 
beast."  Now  the  balls  are  usually  called  men,  but 
he  felicitously  hit  upon  a  middle  term,  a  term  of 
approximation  and  imaginative  reconciliation,  a  some- 
thing where  the  two  ends,  of  the  brute  matter  (ivory) 
and  their  human  and  rather  violent  personification 
into  men,  might  meet,  as  I  take  it,  illustrative  of 
that  Excellent  remark  in  a  certain  Preface  about 
Imagination,  explaining  "like  a  sea-beast  that  had 
crawled  forth  to  sun  himself."  Not  that  I  accuse 
William  Minor  of  hereditary  plagiary,  or  conceive 
the  image  to  have  come  ex  traduce.  Rather  he 
seemeth  to  keep  aloof  from  any  source  of  imitation, 
and  purposely  to  remain  ignorant  of  what  mighty 
351 


poets  have  done  in  this  kind  before  him.  For, 
being  asked  if  his  father  had  ever  been  on 
Westminster  Bridge,  he  answer'd  that  he  did  not 
know. 

It  is  hard  to  discern  the  Oak  in  the  Acorn,  or  a 
Temple  like  St.  Paul's  in  the  first  stone  which  is  laid, 
nor  can  I  quite  prefigure  what  destination  the  genius 
of  William  Minor  hath  to  take.  Some  few  hints  I 
have  set  down,  to  guide  my  future  observations.  He 
hath  the  power  of  calculation  in  no  ordinary  degree 
for  a  chit.  He  combineth  figures,  after  the  first 
boggle,  rapidly.  As  in  the  Tricktrack  board,  where 
the  hits  are  figured,  at  first  he  did  not  perceive  that 
15  and  7  made  22,  but  by  a  little  use  he  could 
combine  8  with  25 — and  33  again  with  16,  which 
approacheth  something  in  kind  (far  let  me  be  from 
flattering  him  by  saying  in  degree)  to  that  of  the 
famous  American  boy.  I  am  sometimes  inclined  to 
think  I  perceive  the  future  satirist  in  him,  for  he  hath 
a  sub-sardonic  smile  which  bursteth  out  upon  occa- 
sion, as  when  he  was  asked  if  London  were  as  big 
as  Ambleside,  and  indeed  no  other  answer  was  given, 
or  proper  to  be  given,  to  so  ensnaring  and  provoking 
a  question.  In  the  contour  of  scull  certainly  I 
discern  something  paternal.  But  whether  in  all 
respects  the  future  man  shall  transcend  his  father's 
fame,  Time  the  trier  of  geniuses  must  decide.  Be 
it  pronounced  peremptorily  at  present,  that  Willy  is 
a  well-mannerd  child,  and  though  no  great  student, 
hath  yet  a  1  vely  eye  for  things  that  lie  before  him. 

352 


Given  in  haste  from  my  desk  at  Leadenhall.    Your's 
and  yours'  most  sincerely 

C. 


Rural  Death-in-Life  o        o        o         <?• 

TTERE  [at  Enfield]  we  have  nothing  to  do  with 
*•  A  our  victuals  but  to  eat  them,  with  the  garden 
but  to  see  it  grow,  with  the  tax  gatherer  but  to  hear 
him  knock,  with  the  maid  but  to  hear  her  scolded. 
Scot  and  lot,  butcher,  baker,  are  things  unknown  to 
us  save  as  spectators  of  the  pageant.  We  are  fed 
we  know  not  how,  quietists,  confiding  ravens.  We 
have  the  otium  pro  dignitate,  a  respectable  insignifi- 
cance. Yet  in  the  self  condemned  obliviousness,  in 
the  stagnation,  some  molesting  yearnings  of  life,  not 
quite  kill'd,  rise,  prompting  me  that  there  was  a 
London,  and  that  I  was  of  that  old  Jerusalem.  In 
dreams  I  am  in  Flcctmarket,  but  I  wake  and  cry  to 
sleep  again.  I  die  hard,  a  stubborn  Eloisa  in  this 
detestable  Paraclete.  What  have  I  gained  by  health  ? 
intolerable  dulness — what  by  early  hours  and  moderate 
meals  ? — a  total  blank.  O  never  let  the  lying  poets 
be  believed,  who  'tice  men  from  the  chearful  haunts 
of  streets— or  think  they  mean  it  not  of  a  country 
village.  In  the  ruins  of  Palmyra  I  could  gird  mysell 
up  to  solitude,  or  muse  to  the  snorings  of  the  Seven 
Sleepers,  but  to  have  a  little  teazing  image  of  a 

2  353 


town  about  one,  country  folks  that  do  not  look  like 
country  folks — shops  two  yards  square,  half  a  dozen 
apples  and  two  penn'orth  of  overlookd  gingerbread 
for  the  lofty  fruiterers  of  Oxford  Street  —and,  for  the 
immortal  book  and  print  stalls  a  circulating  library, 
that  stands  still,  where  the  shew-picture  is  a  last 
year's  Valentine,  and  whither  the  fame  of  the  last  ten 
Scotch  novels  has  not  yet  travel'd — marry,  they  just 
begin  to  be  conscious  of  the  Red  Gauntlet — to  have  a 
new  plasterd  flat  church,  and  to  be  wishing  that  it 
was  but  a  Cathedral.  The  very  blackguards  here  are 
degenerate.  The  topping  gentry  stock  brokers.  The 
passengers  too  many  to  ensure  your  quiet,  or  let  you 
go  about  whistling,  or  gaping — too  few  to  be  the  fine 
indifferent  pageants  of  Fleet  Street.  Confining,  room- 
keeping  thickest  winter  is  yet  more  bearable  here 
than  the  gaudy  months.  Among  ones  books  at  ones 
fire  by  candle  one  is  soothed  into  an  oblivion  that 
one  is  not  in  the  country,  but  with  the  light  the  green 
fields  return,  till  I  gaze,  and  in  a  calenture  can 
plunge  myself  into  Saint  Giles's.  O  let  no  native 
Londoner  imagine  that  health,  and  rest,  and  innocent 
occupation,  interchange  of  converse  sweet  and  re- 
creative study,  can  make  the  country  any  thing 
better  than  altogether  odious  and  detestable.  A 
garden  was  the  primitive  prison  till  man  with 
Promethean  felicity  and  boldness  luckily  sinn'd  himself 
out  of  it.  Thence  folio wd  Babylon,  Nineveh,  Venice, 
London,  haberdashers,  goldsmiths,  taverns,  play- 
houses, satires,  epigrams,  puns — these  all  came  in 

354 


on  the  town  part,  and  the  thither  side  of  innocence. 
Man  found  out  inventions. 

Charles  Lamb. 


Sydney  Smith's  Way          o        o        o        o 

T  UCY,  Lucy,  my  dear  child,  don't  tear  your  frock  . 
•* — '  tearing  frocks  is  not  of  itself  a  proof  of  genius  ; 
but  write  as  your  mother  writes,  act  as  your  mother 
acts  ;  be  frank,  loyal,  affectionate,  simple,  honest ; 
and  then  integrity  or  laceration  of  frock  is  of  little 
import. 

And  Lucy,  dear  child,  mind  your  arithmetic.  You 
know,  in  the  first  sum  of  yours  I  ever  saw,  there  was 
a  mistake.  You  had  carried  two  (as  a  cab  is  licensed 
to  do),  and  you  ought,  dear  Lucy,  to  have  carried  but 
one.  Is  this  a  trifle?  What  would  life  be  without 
arithmetic,  but  a  scene  of  horrors  ? 

You  are  going  to  Boulogne,  the  city  of  debts 
peopled  by  men  who  never  understood  arithmetic  ; 
by  the  time  you  return,  I  shall  probably  have  received 
my  first  paralytic  stroke,  and  shall  have  lost  all  re- 
collection of  you  ;  therefore  I  now  give  you  my  part- 
ing advice.  Don't  marry  anybody  who  has  not  a 
tolerable  understanding  and  a  thousand  a  year  ;  and 
God  bless  you,  dear  child  ! 

Sydney  Smith. 


355 


Jeremy  Taylor's  Way          o        o         o         *o 

T^vEAR  SIR, — I  am  in  some  disorder  by  reason  of 
••"^  the  death  of  a  little  child  of  mine.  A  boy  that 
lately  made  me  very  glad,  but  now  he  rejoices  in  his 
little  robe,  while  we  sigh,  and  think,  and  long  to  be 
as  safe  as  he  is.  ... 

Jeremy  Taylor  (to  John  Evelyn), 


THE  WISE  MEN 


VIXI 

I  have  lived  and  I  have  loved  ; 
I  have  waked  and  I  have  slept ; 
I  have  sung  and  I  have  danced  ; 
I  have  smiled  and  I  have  wept ; 
I  have  won  and  wasted  treasure  ; 
I  have  had  my  fill  of  pleasure  ; 
And  all  these  things  were  weariness, 
And  some  of  them  were  dreariness. 
And  all  these  things — but  two  things 
Were  emptiness  and  pain  : 
And  Love — it  was  the  best  of  them  ; 
And  Sleep — worth  all  the  rest  of  them. 

L.  S. 


Old  age  is  no  such  uncomfortable  thing,  if  one  gives  oneself 
up  to  it  with  a  good  grace,  and  don't  drag  it  about 

To  midnight  dances  and  the  public  show. 

If  one  stays  quietly  in  one's  own  house  in  the  country,  and 
cares  for  nothing  but  oneself,  scolds  one's  servants,  condemns 
everything  that  is  new,  and  recollects  how  charming  a  thousand 
things  were  formerly  that  were  very  disagreeable,  one  gets  over 
the  winters  very  well,  and  the  summers  get  over  themselves. 

Horace  Walpole, 


The  Canon's  Maxims        -o        o        <?•         *o 

FOSTON,  February  i6/A,  1820. 

•T\EAR  LADY  GEORGIANA,—  .  .  .  Nobodyhas 
•"-^  suffered  more  from  low  spirits  than  I  have 
done — so  I  feel  for  you.  ist.  Live  as  well  as  you 
dare.  2nd.  Go  into  the  shower-bath  with  a  small 
quantity  of  water  at  a  temperature  low  enough  to 
give  you  a  slight  sensation  of  cold,  75°  or  80°.  yd. 
Amusing  books.  4th.  Short  views  of  human  life — 
not  further  than  dinner  or  tea.  5th.  Be  as  busy  as 
you  can.  6th.  See  as  much  as  you  can  of  those 
friends  who  respect  and  like  you.  7th.  And  of  those 
acquaintances  who  amuse  you.  8th.  Make  no  secret 
of  low  spirits  to  your  friends,  but  talk  of  them  freely 
— they  are  always  worse  for  dignified  concealment. 
9th.  Attend  to  the  effects  tea  and  coffee  produce 
upon  you.  loth.  Compare  your  lot  with  that  of  other 
people,  nth.  Don't  expect  too  much  from  human  life 
— a  sorry  business  at  the  best.  i2th.  Avoid  poetry, 
dramatic  representations  (except  comedy),  music, 
serious  novels,  melancholy,  sentimental  people,  and 
everything  likely  to  excite  feeling  or  emotion,  not 
359 


ending  in  active  benevolence.  i3th.  Do  good,  and 
endeavour  to  please  everybody  of  every  degree.  I4th. 
He  as  much  as  you  can  in  the  open  air  without 
fatigue.  1 5th.  Make  the  room  where  you  commonly 
sit,  gay  and  pleasant.  i6th.  Struggle  by  little  and 
little  against  idleness.  lyth.  Don't  be  too  severe 
upon  yourself,  or  underrate  yourself,  but  do  yourself 
justice.  1 8th.  Keep  good  blazing  fires,  igth.  Be 
firm  and  constant  in  the  exercise  of  rational  religion. 
2oth.  Believe  me,  dear  Lady  Georgiana,  very  truly 
yours, 

Sydney  Smith. 


Horace,  Book  ii.  Ode  x. 


R 


ECEIVE,  dear  friend,  the  truths  I  teach, 
^     So  shalt  thou  live  beyond  the  reach 
Of  adverse  Fortune's  pow'r  ; 

Not  always  tempt  the  distant  deep, 

Nor  always  timorously  creep 
Along  the  treach'rous  shore. 

He  that  holds  fast  the  golden  mean, 
And  lives  contentedly  between 

The  little  and  the  great, 
Feels  not  the  wants  that  pinch  the  poor, 
Nor  plagues  that  haunt  the  rich  man's  door, 

Imbitt'ring  all  his  state. 
360 


The  tallest  pines  feel  most  the  pow'r 
Of  wintry  blasts  ;  the  loftiest  tow'r 

Comes  heaviest  to  the  ground  ; 
The  bolts,  that  spare  the  mountain's  side, 
His  cloud-capt  eminence  divide, 

And  spread  the  ruin  round. 

The  well-inform'd  philosopher 
Rejoices  with  a  wholesome  fear. 

And  hopes,  in  spite  of  pain  ; 
If  Winter  bellow  from  the  north, 
Soon  the  sweet  Spring  comes  dancing  forth, 

And  Nature  laughs  again. 

What  if  thine  heav'n  be  overcast, 
The  dark  appearance  will  not  last ; 

Expect  a  brighter  sky. 
The  God,  that  strings  the  silver  bow, 
Awakes  sometimes  the  muses  too, 

And  lays  his  arrows  by. 

If  hindrances  obstruct  thy  way, 
Thy  magnanimity  display, 

And  let  thy  strength  be  seen  ; 
I'.ut  O  !  if  Fortune  fill  thy  sail 
With  more  than  a  propitious  gale, 

Take  half  thy  canvas  in. 

W .  Cowpcr 


361 


Contentment  o         o         o         o 

"  Man  wants  but  little  here  below." 

T     ITTLE  I  ask  ;  my  wants  are  few  ; 
-*— '     I  only  wish  a  hut  of  stone, 
(A  very  plain  brown  stone  will  do,) 

That  I  may  call  my  own  ; — 
And  close  at  hand  is  such  a  one, 
In  yonder  street  that  fronts  the  sun. 

Plain  food  is  quite  enough  for  me  ; 

Three  courses  are  as  good  as  ten  ; — 
If  Nature  can  subsist  on  three, 

Thank  Heaven  for  three.     Amen  ! 
I  always  thought  cold  victuals  nice  ;-- 
My  choice  would  be  vanilla-ice. 

I  care  not  much  for  gold  or  land  ; — 
Give  me  a  mortgage  here  and  there, — 

Some  good  bank-stock,  some  note  of  hand 
Or  trifling  railroad  share, — 

I  only  ask  that  Fortune  send 

A  little  more  than  I  shall  spend. 

Honours  are  silly  toys,  I  know, 
And  titles  are  but  empty  names, 

I  would,  perhaps,  be  Plenipo, — 
But  only  near  St.  James  ; 

I'm  very  sure  I  should  not  care 

To  fill  our  Gubernator's  chair. 
362 


Jewels  are  baubles  ;  'tis  a  sin 

To  care  for  such  unfruitful  things  ;— 

One  good-sized  diamond  in  a  pin, — 
Some,  not  so  large,  in  rings, — 

A  ruby,  and  a  pearl,  or  so, 

Will  do  for  me  ;— I  laugh  at  show. 

My  dame  should  dress  in  cheap  attire  ; 

(Good,  heavy  silks  are  never  dear  ;) — 
I  own  perhaps  I  might  desire 

Some  shawls  of  true  Cashmere, — 
Some  marrowy  crapes  of  China  silk, 
Like  wrinkled  skins  on  scalded  milk. 

I  would  not  have  the  horse  I  drive 
So  fast  that  folks  must  stop  and  stare  : 

An  easy  gait— two,  forty-five — 
Suits  me  ;  I  do  not  care  ; — 

Perhaps,  for  just  a  single  spurt, 

Some  seconds  less  would  do  no  hurt. 

Of  pictures,  I  should  like  to  own 

Titians  and  Raphaels  three  or  four, — 

1  love  so  much  their  style  and  tone, 
One  Turner,  and  no  more, 

(A  landscape, — foreground  golden  dirt,- 

The  sunshine  painted  with  a  squirt.) 

Of  books  but  few,— some  fifty  score 
r*or  daily  use,  and  bound  for  wear  ; 

The  rest  upon  an  upper  floor  ; — 
Some  little  luxury  there 
363 


Of  red  morocco's  gilded  gleam 
And  vellum  rich  as  country  cream. 

Busts,  cameos,  gems, — such  things  as  these, 
Which  others  often  show  for  pride, 

/value  for  their  power  to  please, 
And  selfish  churls  deride  ; — 

One  Stradivarius,  I  confess, 

Two  meerschaums,  I  would  fain  possess. 

Wealth's  wasteful  tricks  I  will  not  learn, 
Nor  ape  the  glittering  upstart  fool ; — 

Shall  not  carved  tables  serve  my  turn  ? 
But  all  must  be  of  buhl. 

Give  grasping  pomp  its  double  share, — 

I  ask  but  one  recumbent  chair. 

Thus  humble  let  me  live  and  die, 
Nor  long  for  Midas'  golden  touch  ; 

If  Heaven  more  generous  gifts  deny, 
I  shall  not  miss  them  much, — 

Too  grateful  for  the  blessing  lent 

Of  simple  tastes  and  mind  content ! 

O.  W.  Holmes. 


The  World  o        •*>        o        o        o        o 

r  I  ^ELL  me  whether  I  am  likely  to  see  you  before  I 

-*•      go  to  Paris,  which  will  be  early  in  February. 

I  hate  you  for  being  so  indifferent  about  me.     I  live 

364 


in  the  world,  and  yet  love  nothing  ;  care  a  straw  for 
nothing,  but  two  or  three  old  friends,  that  I  have 
loved  these  thirty  years.  You  have  buried  yourself 
with  half-a-dozen  parsons  and  'squires,  and  yet  never 
cast  a  thought  upon  those  you  have  always  lived  with. 
You  come  to  town  for  two  months,  grow  tired  in  six 
weeks,  hurry  away,  and  then  one  hears  no  more  of 
you  till  next  winter.  I  don't  want  you  to  like  the 
world,  I  like  it  no  more  than  you  ;  but  I  stay  awhile 
in  it,  because  while  one  sees  it  one  laughs  at  it,  but 
when  one  gives  it  up  one  grows  angry  with  it  ;  and  I 
hold  it  is  much  wiser  to  laugh  than  to  be  out  of  humour. 
You  cannot  imagine  how  much  ill  blood  this  per- 
severance has  cured  me  of ;  I  used  to  say  to  myself, 
"  Lord  !  this  person  is  so  bad,  that  person  is  so  bad,  I 
hate  them."  I  have  now  found  out  that  they  are  all 
pretty  much  alike,  and  I  hate  nobody.  Having  never 
found  you  out,  but  for  integrity  and  sincerity,  I  am 
much  disposed  to  persist  in  a  friendship  with  you ; 
but  if  I  am  to  be  at  all  at  the  pains  of  keeping  it  up,  I 
shall  imitate  my  neighbours  (I  don't  mean  those  at 
next  door,  but  in  the  Scripture  sense  of  neighbour, 
anybody,)  and  say,  "That  is  a  very  good  man,  but  I 
don't  care  a  farthing  for  him."  Till  I  have  taken  my 
final  resolution  on  that  head,  I  am  yours  most 
cordially. 

Horace  Walpole  (to  George  Montagu). 


365 


The  Man  of  Life  Upright 


HPHE  man  of  life  upright, 
-*-       Whose  guiltless  heart  is  free 
From  all  dishonest  deeds, 
Or  thought  of  vanity  ; 

The  man  whose  silent  days 
In  harmless  joys  are  spent, 
Whom  hopes  cannot  delude, 
Nor  sorrow  discontent  : 

That  man  needs  neither  tower 
Nor  armour  for  defence, 
Nor  secret  vaults  to  fly 
From  thunder's  violence. 

He  only  can  behold 
With  unaffrighted  eyes 
The  horrors  of  the  deep 
And  terrors  of  the  skies. 

Thus,  scorning  all  the  cares 
That  fate  or  fortune  brings, 
He  makes  the  heaven  his  book, 
His  wisdom  heavenly  things  ; 

Good  thoughts  his  only  friends, 
His  wealth  a  well-spent  age, 
The  earth  his  sober  inn, — 
And  quiet  pilgrimage. 

Thomas  Campion  (or  Francis  Bacon). 
366 


Of  a  Contented  Mind         <s»        o        o 

"\  \  THEN  all  is  done  and  said, 

*  •       In  the  end  thus  shall  you  find, 
He  most  of  all  doth  bathe  in  bliss 
That  hath  a  quiet  mind, 

And,  clear  from  worldly  cares, 
To  deem  can  be  content 
The  sweetest  time  in  all  his  life 
In  thinking  to  be  spent. 

The  body  subject  is 
To  fickle  Fortune's  power, 
And  to  a  million  of  mishaps 
Is  casual  every  hour  ; 

And  death  in  time  doth  change 
It  to  a  clod  of  clay, 
Whenas  the  mind,  which  is  divine, 
Runs  never  to  decay. 

Companion  none  is  like 
Unto  the  mind  alone  ; 
For  many  have  been  harmed  by  speech  .; 
Through  thinking,  few  or  none  : 

Fear  oftentimes  restraineth  words, 
But  makes  not  thoughts  to  cease, 
And  he  speaks  best  that  hath  the  skill 
When  for  to  hold  his  peace. 

36? 


Our  wealth  leaves  us  at  death  j 
Our  kinsmen  at  the  grave  : 
But  virtues  of  the  mind  unto 
The  heavens  with  us  we  have. 

Wherefore,* for  virtue's  sake, 
I  can  be  well  content 
The  sweetest  time  of  all  my  life 
To  deem  in  thinking  spent. 

Thomas  Lord  Vaux, 


My  Mind  to  me  a  Kingdom  is      •&        o        * 

TV  /T  Y  mind  to  me  a  kingdom  is, 
•*•»•*•     Such  present  joys  therein  I  find, 
That  it  excels  all  other  bliss 

That  earth  affords  or  grows  by  kind  : 
Though  much  I  want  which  most  would  have. 
Yet  still  my  mind  forbids  to  crave. 

No  princely  pomp,  no  wealthy  store, 

No  force  to  win  the  victory, 
No  wily  wit  to  salve  a  sore, 

No  shape  to  feed  a  loving  eye  ; 
To  none  of  these  I  yield  as  thrall : 
For  why  ?     My  mind  doth  serve  for  all. 

I  see  how  plenty  [surfeits]  oft, 
And  hasty  climbers  soon  do  fall ; 

I  see  that  those  which  are  aloft 
Mishap  doth  threaten  most  of  all  j 
368 


They  get  with  toil,  they  keep  with  fear  ; 
Such  cares  my  mind  could  never  bear. 

Content  to  live,  this  is  my  stay  ; 

I  seek  no  more  than  may  suffice  ; 
I  press  to  bear  no  haughty  sway  ; 

Look,  what  I  lack  my  mind  supplies  : 
Lo,  thus  I  triumph  like  a  king, 
Content  with  that  my  mind  doth  bring. 


Some  have  too  much,  yet  still  do  crave  ; 

I  little  have,  and  seek  no  more. 
They  are  but  poor,  though  much  they 

And  I  am  rich  with  little  store  ; 
They  poor,  I  rich  ;  they  beg,  I  give  ; 
They  lack,  I  leave  ;  they  pine,  I  live. 

I  laugh  not  at  another's  loss  ; 

I  grudge  not  at  another's  pain  ; 
Xo  worldly  waves  my  mind  can  toss  ; 

My  state  at  one  doth  still  remain  : 
I  fear  no  foe,  I  fawn  no  friend  ; 
I  loathe  not  life,  nor  dread  my  end. 

Some  weigh  their  pleasure  by  their  lu 
Their  wisdom  by  their  rage  of  will  ; 

Their  treasure  is  their  only  trust  ; 
A  cloaked  craft  their  store  of  skill  : 

But  all  the  pleasure  that  I  find 

Is  to  maintain  a  quiet  mind. 

2    A  369 


My  wealth  is  health  and  perfect  ease  ; 

My  conscience  clear  my  chief  defence  ; 
I  neither  seek  by  bribes  to  please, 

Nor  by  deceit  to  breed  offence  : 
Thus  do  I  live  ;  thus  will  1  die  ; 
Would  all  did  so  as  well  as  1  ! 

Sir  Edward  Dyer. 


No  Armour  against  Fate    ^>        o        o 

HPHE  glories  of  our  blood  and  state 

-*-      Are  shadows,  not  substantial  things  ; 
There  is  no  armour  against  fate, 
Death  lays  his  icy  hand  on  kings  : 

Sceptre  and  crown 

Must  tumble  down, 
And  in  the  dust  be  equal  made 
With  the  poor  crooked  scythe  and  spade. 

Some  men  with  swords  may  reap  the  field, 
And  plant  fresh  laurels  where  they  kill ; 
But  their  strong  nerves  at  last  must  yield  ; 
They  tame  but  one  another  still : 

Early  or  late, 

They  stoop  to  fate, 

And  must  give  up  their  murmuring  breath, 
When  they,  pale  captives,  creep  to  death. 

The  garlands  wither  on  your  brow, 
Then  boast  no  more  your  mighty  deeds  ; 
370 


Upon  Death's  purple  altar  now, 
See,  where  the  victor-victim  bleeds  : 

Your  head  must  come 

To  the  cold  tomb  ; 
Only  the  actions  of  the  just 
Smell  sweet,  and  blossom  in  their  dust. 

James  Shirley. 


Epigram       o         o         o         «£>         o        o 

T  STROVE  with  none,  for  none  was  worth  my  strife ; 
•*•     Nature  I  loved,  and,  next  to  nature,  art ; 
I  warm'd  both  hands  before  the  fire  of  life  ; 
It  sinks,  and  I  am  ready  to  depart. 

Walter  Savage  Landor. 


Life  <?•         <?•         «e>         o         -G»         o        *c. 

(Fragment) 

T     IFE  !  I  know  not  what  thou  art, 

^— '     But  know  that  thou  and  I  must  part  ; 

And  when,  or  how,  or  where  we  met, 

I  own  to  mc's  a  secret  yet. 

Life  !  we've  been  Ion, 

Through  pleasant  and  through  cloudy  weather  ; 
'Tis  hard  to  part  when  friends  are  dear — 
Perhaps  'twill  cost  a  sigh,  a  tear ; 

37* 


Then  steal  away,  give  little  warning, 

Choose  thine  own  time  ; 
Say  not  Good-night, — but  in  some  brighter  clime 

Bid  me  Good-morning. 

A.  L.  Barbauld. 


The  End      «£>        ^>        o        •£>        ^>        -£> 

"\  T  THAT  is  to  come  we  know  not.     But  we  know 
*  •       That  what  has  been  was  good — was  good  to 

show, 

Better  to  hide,  and  best  of  all  to  bear. 
We  are  the  masters  of  the  days  that  were. 
We  have  lived,  we  have  loved,  we  have  suffered  '.  .  . 
even  so. 

Shall  we  not  take  the  ebb  who  had  the  flow  ? 
Life  was  our  friend.     Now,  if  it  be  our  foe — 
Dear,  though  it  spoil  and  break  us  ! — need  we  care 
What  is  to  come  ? 

Let  the  great  winds  their  worst  and  wildest  blow, 
Or  the  gold  weather  round  us  mellow  slow  ; 
We  have  fulfilled  ourselves,  and  we  can  dare, 
And  we  can  conquer,  though  we  may  not  share 
In  the  rich  quiet  of  the  after-glow, 

What  is  to  come. 

W.  E.  Henley. 

372 


AWAKENING 


The  Meadows  in  Spring 


'HP IS  a  dull  sight 

•**      To  see  the  year  dying, 
When  winter  winds 

Set  the  yellow  wood  sighing  ; 
Sighing,  oh  sighing  ! 

When  such  a  time  cometh, 

I  do  retire 
Into  an  old  room 

Beside  a  bright  fire  ; 

Oh,  pile  a  bright  fire  ! 

And  there  I  sit, 

Reading  old  things, 
Of  knights  and  lorn  damsels, 

While  the  wind  sings — 
Oh,  drearily  sings ! 

I  never  look  out 

Nor  attend  to  the  blast ; 
For  all  to  be  seen 

Is  the  leaves  falling  fast — 
Falling,  falling  ! 

375 


But  close  at  the  hearth, 

Like  a  cricket,  sit  I, 
Reading  of  summer 

And  chivalry — 

Gallant  chivalry ! 

Then  with  an  old  friend 
I  talk  of  our  youth — 

How  'twas  gladsome,  but  often 
Foolish,  forsooth  : 

But  gladsome,  gladsome 

Or  to  get  merry 

We  sing  an  old  rhyme, 
That  made  the  wood  ring  again 

In  summer  time — 

Sweet  summer  time ! 

Then  go  we  to  smoking, 

Silent  and  snug  : 
Nought  passes  between  us, 

Save  a  brown  jug — 
Sometimes  ! 

And  sometimes  a  tear 

Will  rise  in  each  eye, 
Seeing  the  two  old  friends, 
So  merrily — 
So  merrily ! 
376 


And  ere  to  bed 

Go  we,  go  we, 
Down  on  the  ashes 

We  kneel  on  the  knee, 
Praying  together  I 

Thus,  then,  live  I, 

Till,  'mid  all  the  gloom, 
By  heaven  !  the  bold  sun 

Is  with  me  in  the  room, 
Shining,  shining  ! 

Then  the  clouds  part, 

Swallows  soaring  between 
The  spring  is  alive, 

And  the  meadows  are  green 

1  jump  up,  like  mad, 

Break  the  old  pipe  in  twain, 
And  away  to  the  meadows, 

The  meadows  again  ! 

Edward  FitzGcrald. 


377 


POSTSCRIPT 

A  BOOK  that  represented  at  all  fully  the  urbane 
•*  *-  spirit  in  English  literature  would  run  to  many 
volumes.  I  have  attempted  only  to  give,  as  it  were, 
the  spirit  of  the  spirit.  Towards  this  end  I  have 
been  kindly  permitted,  by  authors  and  publishers, 
to  use  many  copyright  pieces,  of  which  I  hope  the 
following  list  of  thanks  is  complete: — To  Mr.  George 
Meredith  for  extracts  from  The  Egoist,  One  of  our 
Conqueror -j.and  Poems  (Constable*;  to  Mr.Swinburne 
for  the  poem  "  To  a  Cat  "  from  his  Poetical  Works 
(Chatto  &  Windus,;  to  Mrs.  Henley  for  poems  by 
\V.  K.  Henley  in  ./  Hook  of  I'l-rscs  (N'utt);  to  Mr. 
Francis  Thompson  for  "  To  a  Snow-flake"  in  .' 
r<>t'/>i Y  (Constable  ;  to  Mr.  Lloyd  (  >sbourne  for  two 
passage^  from  R.  L.  Stevenson's  Memories  ami  /*>;•- 
traits  iChatt(j  &  \Vindus,;  to  Mi^>,  lienson  for  the 
versi-s  on  pets  from  The  Soul  of  a  ( 'at  (Heineinann  ); 
to  Houghton,  Miftlin  &  Co.,  the  authorized  j)iiblish- 
ers  of  the  works  of  Lowell,  Whittiei,  Longfrllow, 
and  Holmes,  for  poems  by  these  authors;  to  Me-^rs. 
Macmillan  for  Matthew  Arnold's  "Grist's  (iravr," 
two  poems  by  T.  E.  Urown,  and  passages  lioin 

379 


Edward  FitzGerald's  letters;  to  Mr.  Forrester  Scott 
for  "John  Halsham's  "  "My  Last  Terrier";  to  Mr. 
Alfred  Cochrane  for  two  poems  from  Collected  Verses 
(Longmans);  to  Mrs.  Marriott  Watson  for  Graham 
R.  Tomson's  "  To  my  Cat"  ;  to  Mr.  Lang  for  three 
poems;  to  Mr.  J.  W.  Mackail  for  epigrams  from  his 
translation  of  the  Greek  Anthology  (Longmans);  to 
Mr.  Bowyer  Nichols  for  the  poem  "During  Music" 
from  Loves  Looking-Glass;  to  Mr.  Wilfred  Whitten 
for  the  lines  on  "  Bloomsbury  ";  to  Mrs.  Meynell  for 
"November  Blue";  to  Mr.  Stephen  Gwynn  for  a 
passage  on  the  Thames  from  his  Decay  of  Sensibility 
(Lane);  to  Mr.  Austin  Dobson  for  "The  Cure's 
Progress"  and  "On  a  Fan"  from  his  Poems  (Kegan 
Paul);  to  Mr.  Godfrey  Locker  Lampson  for  his 
father's  "St.  James's  Street"  from  London  Lyrics 
(Macmillan);  to  Mr.  Elliot  Stock  for  the  account  of 
Xavier  Marmier  from  the  translation  of  M.  Uzanne's 
book  on  the  Book-Hunters  of  Paris;  to  the  Rev. 
Thomas  Constable  for  the  lines  on  "Old  October"; 
to  Mr.  A.  L.  Humphreys  for  Mr.  Smith's  "  At  the 
Sign  of  the  Jolly  Jack"  from  Village  Carols;  to  Mr. 
George  Allen  for  the  poems  from  the  late  William 
Cory's  lonica;  to  the  owner  of  the  copyright  and 
Messrs.  Smith,  Elder  for  a  poem  from  Browning's 
Dramatis  Persona ;  to  Miss  Alice  Werner  for  a 
"  Song  of  Fleet  Street  "  ;  and  to  the  editor  of  the 
Spectator  for  allowing  several  poems  to  be  taken  from 
his  pages.  There  remain  three  or  four  poems  by 
poets,  American  and  English,  inaccessible  to  me,  whe 
will  not,  I  trust,  resent  their  appearance  here. 


I 

1 1  ill**        -      ' 


SHK 

W: 


A     000  102 


646     7 


